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LONGMANS'  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 

EDITED   BY 

GEORGE  RICE  CARPENTER,  A.B. 

PROFESSOR  OF  RHETORIC  AND   ENGLISH   COMPOSITION   IN   COLUMBIA   COLLEGE 


GEORGE    ELIOT 


SILAS  MARNEK 


ENGLISH  CLASSICS 

Edited  by  GEORGE  RICE  CARPENTER,  A.B., 
Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  in  Columbia  University. 


With  full  Notes,  Introductions,  Bibliographies,  and  other  Explanatory  and 
Illustrative  Matter.    Crown  8vo. 


BURKE'S  SPEECH  ON  CONCILIATION  WITH 
AMERICA.  Edited  by  Albert  S.  Cook, 
Ph.D.,  L.H.D.,  Professor  of  the  English 
Language  and  Literature  in  Yale  Uni- 
versity. 

CARLYLE'S  ESSAY  ON  BUBNB.  Edited  by 
Wilson  Farrand,  A.M.,  Associate  Princi- 
pal of  theNewark  Academy,  Newark,  N.J. 

COLERIDGE'S  THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT 
MABINEB.  Edited  !>y  Herbert  Bates,  A.B., 
late  of  the  University  of  Nebraska,  In- 
structor in  English  in  the  Manual  Train- 
ing High  School,  Brooklyn . 

COOPER'S  THE  LAST  OF  THE  MOHICANS.  Ed- 
ited by  Charles  F.  Richardson,  Ph.D., 
Winkley  Professor  of  the  English  Lan- 
guage and  Literature  in  Dartmouth  College. 

DE  QUINCEY'S  FLIGHT  OF  A  TABTAB  TBIBE 
(REVOLT  OF  THK  TARTARS).  Edi'ed  by 
Charles  Sears  Baldwin.  Ph.D.,  Assistant 
Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  Yale  University. 

DEFOE'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  PLAGUE  IN  LON- 
DON. Edited  bv  Professor  G.  R.  Carpenter, 
of  Columbia  University. 

DBYDEN'S  PALAMON  AND  ABCITE.  Edited 
by  William  T.  Brewster,  A.M.,  Tutor  in 
Rhetoric  in  Columbia  University. 

GEORGE  ELIOT'S  SILAS  MABNER.  Edited  by 
Robert  Herrick.  A.B.,  Assistant  Professor 
of  Rhetoric  in  the  University  of  Chicago. 

GOLDSMITH'S  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 
Edited  by  Mary  A.  Jordan.  A.M.,  Pro- 
fessor of  Rhetoric  and  Old  English  in 
Smith  College. 

IBVINO'S  TALES  OF  A  TBAVELLEB.  With  an 
Introduction  by  Brander  Matthews,  Pro- 
fessor of  Literature  in  Columbia  Univer- 
sity, and  Explanatory  Notes  by  the  general 
editor  of  the  series. 

MACATTLAY'S  ESSAYS  ON  MILTON  AND  ADDI- 
SON.  Edited,  with  Notes  and  Introduction, 
by  James  Greenleaf  Croswell,  A.B.,  Head 
Master  of  the  Brearley  School,  New  York. 

MACAULAY'S  ESSAY  ON  MILTON.  Edited  hy 
James  Greenleaf  Croswell,  A.B.,  Head 
Master  of  the  Brearley  School,  New  York. 

MACAITLAY'S  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  Ed- 
ited by  the  Rev.  Huber  Gray  Buehler,  of 
the  Hot»hkiss  School,  Lakeville,  Conn. 

MILTON'S  L'ALLEOBO,  IL  PENSEROSO,  COMUS, 
AND  LYCIDAS.  Edited  by  William  P.  Trent, 
A.M.,  Professor  of  English  in  the  Univer- 
sity of the  South. 


MILTON'S  PARADISE  LOST.  BOOKS  I.  AND  II. 
Edited  by  Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr., 
Ph.D.,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  Logic  in 
Uniou  College. 

POPE'S  HOMER'S  ILIAD.  BOOKS  I., VI.,  XXII., 
AND  XXIV.  Edited  by  William  H.  Max- 
well, A.  M  ,  City  Superintendent  of  Schools, 
New  York,  and  Percival  Chubb,  of  the 
Ethical  Culture  Schools,  New  York. 

SCOTT'S  WOODSTOCK.  Edited  by  Bliss  Perry, 
A.M.,  Professor  of  Oratory  and  ^-Esthetic 
Criticism  ii\  Princeton  University. 

SCOTT'S  ITANHOE.  Edited  by  Bliss  Perry, 
A.M.,  Professor  of  Oratory  and  ./Esthetic 
Criticism  in  Princeton  University. 

SCOTT'S  MABMION.  Edited  by  Robert  Morss 
Lovett.A.B.,  Assistant  Professor  of  English 
iu  the  University  of  Chicago. 

SHAKSPERF'S  JULIUS  CJESAR.  Edited,  with 
Introduction  and  Notes,  by  George  C.  D. 
Odell,  Ph.D.,  Tutor  in  Rhetoric  antf  English 
Composition  in  Columbia  University. 

SHAKSPERE'S  MACBETH.  Edited  by  John 
Matthews  Manly,  Ph.  D.,  Professor  of 
English  in  the  University  of  Chicago. 

SHAKSPEBE'S  MEBCHAXT  OF  VENICE.  Ed- 
ited by  Francis  B.  Gummere,  Pn.D.,  Pro- 
fessor of  English  in  Haverford  College. 

SHAKSPERE'S  As  You  LIKE  IT.  With  an 
Introduction  by  Barrett  rt'endell,  A.B  , 
Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  Harvard 
University,  and  Notes  bv  William  Lycn 
Phelps,  Ph.D.,  Assistant  Professor  of  Eng- 
lish in  Yale  University. 

SHAKSPEBE'S  A  MIPSUMMEB  NIGHT'S 
DREAM.  Edited  bv  George  Pierce  Baker, 
A.B.,  Assistant  Professor  of  English  in 
Harvard  University. 

THE  SIB  ROGEB  DE  COVEBLEY  PAPERS,  from 
"The  Spectator.'1  Ed. ted  By  D.  O.  S. 
Lowell,  A.M.,  of  the  Roxbury  Latin  School, 
Roxbury,  Mass. 

SOUTHEY'S  LIFE  OF  NELSON.  Edited  by  Ed- 
win L.  Miller,  A.M.,  of  the  Euglewood 
High  School,  Illinois. 

TENNYSON'S  THE  PBINCESS.  Edited  by 
George  Edward  Wocdbcrry,  A.B.,  Pro- 
fessor of  Literature  in  Columbia  Uni- 
versity. 

WEBSTER'S  FIRST  BUNKER  HILL  OBATIOX, 
together  with  other  Addresses  relating  to 
the  Revolution.  Edited  b"  Fred  Newton 
Scott,  Ph.D.,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  the 
University  of  Michigan. 


GEORGE  ELIOT 

(After  an  etching  by  Rajon) 


Xoncjmans'  Bncjlisb  Glassies 


GEORGE    ELIOT'S 


SILAS    MARNER 


EDITED 

WITH   NOTES   AND  AN   INTRODUCTION 


EGBERT  HERRICK 

ASSISTANT  rKOFESSOK  OF  K1IETOKIC   IN  THE  UNIVEKSITY  OF   CIIICAOO 


NEW  YORK 
LONGMANS,    GEEEN,   AND    CO. 

LONDON  AND  BOMBAY 

1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1895 

BY 
LONGMANS,   GREEN,  AND  CO. 


All  riyhts  reserved 


FIRST  EDITION,  AUGUST,  1895 

REPRINTED  MARCH  AND  AUGUST,  1806 

JUNE  AND  OCTOBER,  1S98,  UETISED 

AUGUST,  1899 


TROW     DIRECTORY 
UNO    BOOKBINDING    COMPANY 
NEW     YORK 


PREFACE 

THE  main  aim  of  teachers  of  English  during  the  last 
decade  has  been  to  enable  students  in  the  secondary  schools 
to  secure  a  wider  and  closer  familiarity  with  the  great  Eng- 
lish classics.  Until  that  aim  be  attained,  indeed,  we  can 
scarcely  hope  to  reap  much  benefit  from  the  teaching  of 
rhetoric,  of  composition,  or  of  the  history  of  English  liter- 
ature, for  each  of  these  studies,  however  separated  from 
the  others  by  the  specific  objects  it  has  in  view,  must  de- 
pend to  a  greater  or  less  degree  on  a  knowledge  of,  and  a 
familiarity  with,  at  least  a  few  of  the  large  body  of  English 
classics,  and  with  literary  English — the  more  dignified 
forms,  usages,  and  idioms  of  the  language,  that  have  taken 
their  place  in  our  literature,  and,  by  this  very  means,  have 
become  standard. 

In  favor  of  more  reading  in  the  schools,  accordingly,  as 
affording  a  basis  for  information,  a  source  of  pleasure,  and 
an  incentive  to,  and  even  a  means  for,  growth  in  power  of 
expression,  the  National  Committee  of  Ten  has  recently 
offered  a  strong  recommendation.  The  Conference  on 
English  assigned  three  "periods"  a  week  for  each  of  the 
four  years  of  the  high-school  course  to  the  study  of  English 
literature,  and  advised  that  it  be  "  taught  incidentally,  in 
connection  with  the  pupils'  study  of  particular  authors  and 
works;  "that  "the  mechanical  use  of  ''manuals  of  litera- 
ture' be  avoided;"  and  that  "the  committing  to  memory 
of  names  and  dates  be  not  mistaken  for  culture."  The 
position  taken  by  the  National  Committee  of  Ten  was  fur- 

' 


viii  PREFACE 

ther  strengthened  by  the  action  of  the  Conference  on  Uni- 
form Entrance  Requirements  in  English,  whose  recommen- 
dations, since  adopted  by  almost  all  the  prominent  colleges 
and  universities  throughout  the  country,  prescribed  "  Read- 
ing "  as  the  first  of  the  two  requirements  in  English  for  ad- 
mission to  American  colleges.  A  second  recommendation 
of  the  Conference  on  Uniform  Entrance  Requirements  in 
English  was,  that  certain  English  classics  should  be  studied 
thoroughly,  word  by  word  and  letter  by  letter,  if  need  be, 
until  the  student  should  have  as  detailed  and  as  intelligent 
an  idea  as  his  age  and  his  opportunities  permit,  of  their 
subject-matter,  their  form,  and  their  structure. 

In  strict  conformity  with  the  courses  of  reading  and 
study  mentioned  above,  and  certain  to  be  adopted  widely 
and  uniformly  throughout  the  United  States,  the  publish- 
ers have  arranged  for  the  editing  of  a  series  of  English 
classics,  especially  designed  for  use  in  secondary  schools, 
either  in  accordance  with  the  system  of  English  study  rec- 
ommended and  outlined  by  the  National  Committee  of 
Ten,  or  in  direct  preparation  for  the  uniform  entrance  re- 
quirements in  English  now  adopted  by  the  principal  Amer- 
ican colleges  and  universities.  The  Editors  have  been 
chosen  for  their  scholarship,  their  literary  or  critical  abil- 
ity, or  their  experience  in  teaching,  according  as  each  quali- 
fication seemed  most  necessary  for  the  treatment  of  the  work 
in  question.  On  their  part,  the  publishers  aim  to  provide 
a  series  of  volumes  moderate  in  price,  attractive  and  service- 
able in  point  of  mechanical  execution,  and  fit  in  every  way 
for  permanent  use  and  possession. 
The  specific  aims  of  the  series  are  : 

I.  To  interest  young  students  in  certain  books  (those 
prescribed  for  reading  in  the  uniform  entrance  require- 
ments) as  literature,  and  to  draw  attention  to  the  main 
subjects  of  importance  in  them.  No  stress  is  laid  on 


PREFACE  IX 

merely  linguistic  study  ;  but  every  effort  is  made,  by  crit- 
ical and  biographical  introductions,  by  pertinent  explana- 
tory notes,  by  bibliographies,  chronological  tables,  and,  in 
some  instances,  by  portraits,  maps,  and  plans,  to  make 
these  books  not  only  pleasant  and  useful  reading  in  them- 
selves, but  incentives  to  further  reading  and  study. 

II.  To  provide,  in  each  case,  for  the  books  prescribed 
for  study  a  thorough  and  satisfactory  method  of  treatment. 
Teachers  in  secondary  schools  will  remember  that  the  rec- 
ommendations of  the  Committee  of  Ten  and  the  uniform 
requirements  suggested  jointly  by  various  associations  of 
colleges  and  preparatory  schools  are  general,  rather  than 
particular,  and  that  definite  methods  of  study  still  remain 
to  be  laid  down  by  scholars  and  experienced  teachers. 
Precisely  this  is  done  by  the  part  of  the  present  series  de- 
voted to  the  books  prescribed  for  study.     The  position  and 
the  reputation  of  the  editors  are  a  sufficient  guarantee  that 
these  volumes  do  all  that  can  be  done,  at  the  present  time 
and  under  the  present  circumstances,  toward  defining  and 
typifying  the  best  modern  methods  of  studying  literature 
in  secondary  schools. 

III.  To  provide  for  students  in  secondary  schools  who 
are  not  preparing  for  college,  a  uniform  series  of  properly 
edited  English  classics  for  reading  and  study.     The  series 
which  we  here  present  has  the  great  advantages  of  uni- 
formity and  of  authority,  and,  it  is  believed,  will  be  widely 
adopted  throughout  the  country  by  schools  that  refuse  to 
give  students  who  do  not  pursue  their  studies  beyond  the 
high  school  a  less  wide  and  thorough  training  in  their 
mother  tongue  than  those  who  go  to  college. 

George  Eliot's  charming  story  of  "  Silas  Marner  "  is  re- 
printed, by  the  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  "William  Black- 
wood  and  Sons,  from  the  authorized  English  edition  of 


X  PREFACE 

that  wort.  No  changes  whatever  have  been  made  in  the 
text.  The  portrait  of  George  Eliot  which  forms  the  front- 
ispiece is  after  the  well-known  etching  by  Eajon. 

Explicit  advice  as  to  the  way  in  which  "  Silas  Marner" 
should  be  read  in  secondary  schools  will  be  found  in  the 
"  Suggestions  for  Teachers  and  Students."  The  "  Chron- 
ological Table"  is  designed  to  show  who  were  George 
Eliot's  most  important  contemporaries  in  England  and 
America. 

G.  K.  CARPENTEB. 

COLUMBIA  COLLEGE,  June,  1895. 


CONTENTS 


PAGK 

INTRODUCTION 

SUGGESTIONS  FOB  TEACHERS  AND  STUDENTS  .        .        .        xxxiv 
CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE xxxvm 

PART  I 

o 

CHAPTER  I 

CHAPTER  II 18 

CHAPTER  III 28 

CHAPTER  IV  

CHAPTER  V 51 

CHAPTER  VI 57 

CHAPTER  VII C9 

CHAPTER  VIII •                        .        .  76 

CHAPTER  IX 8G 

CHAPTER  X 95 

CHAPTER  XI 113 

CHAPTER  XII 136 

CHAPTER  XIII 148 

CHAPTER  XIV 15S 

CHAPTER  XV 167 


Xll  CONTENTS 

PART  II 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  XVI 1G9 

CHAPTER  XVII 186 

CHAPTER  XVIII 198 

CHAPTER  XIX 203 

CHAPTER  XX 214 

CHAPTER  XXI 217 

CONCLUSION        ..,..•.  ,223 


INTRODUCTION 

I.     BIOGRAPHY 

THE  most  delightful  introduction  a  student  can  have  to 
George  Eliot's  life  and  personality  will  be  found  in  certain 
scenes  and  characters  of  her  earlier  novels.  Although  the 
novelist  nowhere  draws  exact  portraits  of  her  early  friends 
or  associates,  or  describes  actual  events  of  importance  in  her 
early  life,  yet  the  country  scenes  of  Midland  England  and 
the  character  of  English  country  life  in  the  first  part  of 
this  century,  from  which  George  Eliot  derived  her  most 
inspiring  material,  are  imbedded  bit  by  bit  in  her  early 
fiction  and  in  "  Middlemarch  "  (written  in  1871-1872). 
Her  first  stories,  "  The  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,"  were  laid 
in  Warwickshire  at  Nuneaton,  within  a  few  miles  of  her 
early  home.  Her  father's  occupation,  that  of  supervisor 
or  manager  of  a  large  estate,  with  special  skill  in  the  man- 
agement of  forests  and  the  valuation  of  land,  is  described 
in  connection  with  Caleb  Garth  in  "Middlemarch;" 
Adam  Bede  also  possesses  many  characteristics  drawn  from 
her  father.  The  quick-witted  Mrs.  Poyser  in  "Adam 
Bede,"  with  her  admirable  housewifely  qualities,  suggests 
George  Eliot's  mother,  and  the  Dodsons  in  the  "  Mill  on 
the  Floss "  are  in  many  respects  pictured  from  her  own 
family.  Dorothea  Brooke's  relationship  with  her  sister 
Celia  in  "Middlemarch"  resembles  George  Eliot's  own 
life  with  her  younger  sister  Christina.  The  central  story 
of  "Adam  Bede"  was  told  George  Eliot  by  an  aunt,  a 


XIV  INTRODUCTION 

Methodist  preacher,  who  visited  Mr.  Evans's  family  when 
the  novelist  was  in  her  teens.  Indeed,  many  of  the  feat' 
ures  of  the  young  Methodist  Dinah  Morris  were  suggested 
by  this  aunt,  who  made  a  deep  impression  at  that  time 
upon  George  Eliot ;  through  her  also,  it  is  probable,  the 
novelist  became  familiar  with  "the  life  of  an  artisan  ear- 
ly incorporated  in  a  narrow  religious  sect,"  which  formed 
the  character  of  Silas  Marner.  Perhaps  the  "  Mill  on  the 
Floss "  is  the  most  autobiographical  novel,  in  that  the 
heroine,  Maggie  Tulliver,  indicates  many  of  George  Eliot's 
impulses.  It  is  noteworthy  that  only  two  important  works, 
"  Komola "  and  "  Daniel  Deronda,"  have  no  immediate 
connection  with  the  Midland  England  where  George  Eliot 
lived,  almost  without  interruption,  the  first  thirty  years  of 
her  life. 

Mary  Ann  (sometimes  written  by  herself  Marian)  Evans 
was  born  November  22,  1819,  in  the  parish  of  Chilvers 
Col  ton,  Warwickshire,  England.  "  The  year  1819,"  says 
Mr.  Cross,  "  is  memorable  as  a  culminating  period  of  bad 
times  and  political  discontent  in  England.  The  nation 
was  suffering  acutely  from  the  reaction  after  the  excite- 
ment of  the  last  Napoleonic  war.  George  IV.  did  not 
come  to  the  throne  till  January,  1820,  so  that  George  Eliot 
was  born  in  the  reign  of  George  III.  Waterloo  was  not 
yet  an  affair  of  five  years  old.  Byron  had  four  years,  and 
Goethe  had  thirteen  years  still  to  live.  The  last  of  Miss 
Austen's  novels  had  been  published  only  eighteen  months, 
and  the  first  of  the  Waverley  series  only  six  years  before. 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  were  boys  at  school,  and  George 
Sand  was  a  girl  of  fifteen.  That  '  Greater  Britain'  (Can- 
ada and  Australia),  which  to-day  forms  so  large  a  read- 
ing public,  was  then  scarcely  more  than  a  geographical  ex- 
pression, with  less  than  half  a  million  inhabitants,  all 
told,  where  at  present  there  are  eight  millions  ;  and  in  the 


INTRODUCTION  XV 

United  States,  where  more  copies  of  George  Eliot's  books 
are  now  sold  than  in  any  other  quarter  of  the  world,  the 
population  then  numbered  less  than  ten  millions,  where 
to-day  it  is  fifty-five  millions.  Including  Great  Britain, 
these  English-speaking  races  have  increased  from  thirty 
millions  in  1820  to  one  hundred  millions  in  1884 ;  and 
with  a  corresponding  increase  in  education  we  can  form 
some  conception  how  a  popular  English  writer's  fame 
has  widened  its  circle."1  She  died  in  1880,  having  lived 
through  the  important  periods  of  a  century  that  has  been 
filled  with  industrial,  commercial,  and  intellectual  move- 
ments. 

Mr.  Cross,  in  his  "Life,"  thus  describes  the  England 
which  she  was  born  into  : 

"There  was  a  remoteness  about  a  detached  country  house,  in  the 
England  of  those  days,  difficult  for  us  to  conceive  now  with  our  rail- 
ways, penny-post,  and  telegraphs ;  nor  is  the  Warwickshire  country 
about  Griff  an  exhilarating  surrounding.  There  are  neither  hills 
nor  vales,  no  rivers,  lakes,  or  sea— nothing  but  a  monotonous  succes- 
sion of  green  fields  and  hedgerows,  with  some  fine  trees.  The  only 
water  to  be  seen  is  the  '  Brown  Canal. '  The  effect  of  such  a  landscape 
on  an  ordinary  observer  is  not  inspiring,  but  '  effective  magic  is  trans- 
cendent nature  ; '  and  with  her  transcendent  nature  George  Eliot  has 
transfigured  these  scenes,  dear  to  Midland  souls,  into  many  an  idyllic 
picture,  known  to  those  who  know  her  books.  In  her  childhood  the 
great  event  of  the  day  was  the  passing  of  the  coach  before  the  gate  of 
Griff  House,  which  lies  at  a  bend  of  the  high-road  between  Coventry 
and  Nuneaton,  and  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  the  mining  village  of 
Bedworth,  'where  the  land  began  to  be  blackened  with  coal  pits,  the 
rattle  of  hand-looms  to  be  heard  in  hamlets  and  villages.  Here  were 
powerful  men  walking  queerly,  with  knees  bent  outward  from  squatting 
in  the  mine,  going  home  to  throw  themselves  down  in  their  blackened 
flannel  and  sleep  through  the  daylight, then  rise  and  spend  much  of  their 
high  wages  at  the  ale-house  with  their  fellows  of  the  Benefit  Club  ; 

1  George  Eliot's  Life,  J.  W.  Cross  (Harper  and  Brothers),  edition  of 
1885,  page  4. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

here  the  pale,  eager  faces  of  hand-loom  weavers,  men  and  women, 
haggard  from  sitting  up  late  at  night  to  finish  the  week's  work,  hardly 
begun  till  the  Wednesday.  Everywhere  the  cottages  and  the  small 
children  were  dirty,  for  the  languid  mothers  gave  their  strength  to  the 
loom  ;  pious  Dissenting  women,  perhaps,  who  took  life  patiently,  and 
thought  that  salvation  depended  chiefly  on  predestination,  and  not  at 
all  on  cleanliness.  The  gables  of  Dissenting  chapels  now  made  a  visible 
sign  of  religion  and  of  a  meeting-place  to  counterbalance  the  ale  house, 
even  in  the  hamlets.  Yet  there  were  the  grey  steeples  too,  and  the 
church-yards,  with  their  grassy  mounds  and  venerable  head  stones, 
sleeping  in  the  sunlight ;  there  were  broad  fields  and  homesteads,  and 
fine  old  woods  covering  a  rising  ground,  or  stretching  far  by  the  road- 
side, allowing  only  peeps  at  the  park  and  mansion  which  they  shut  in 
from  the  working-day  world.  In  these  Midland  districts  the  traveller 
passed  rapidly  from  one  phase  of  English  life  to  another  ;  after  looking 
on  a  village  dingy  with  coal  dust,  noisy  with  the  shaking  of  looms,  he 
might  skirt  a  parish  all  of  fields,  high  hedges,  and  deep-rutted  lanes  ; 
after  the  coach  had  rattled  over  the  pavement  of  a  manufacturing 
town,  the  scene  of  riots  and  trades-union  meetings,  it  would  take  him 
in  another  ten  minutes  into  a  rural  region,  where  the  neighborhood  of 
the  town  was  only  felt  in  the  advantages  of  a  near  market  for  corn, 
cheese,  and  hay,  and  where  men  with  a  considerable  banking  account 
were  accustomed  to  say  that  they  never  meddled  with  politics  them- 
selves.' "  ' 

"  There  was  nothing  of  the  infant  phenomenon  about 
George  Eliot,"  writes  Mr.  Cross,  and  until  she  began  to  live 
with  her  father  near  Coventry  in  1841,  her  life  was  that  of 
a  more  than  usually  serious  young  woman,  who  had  at- 
tended various  boarding-schools  in  the  neighborhood  and 
for  several  years  had  had  the  care  of  her  father's  house. 
At  Coventry  she  made  several  intimate  and  lifelong  friend- 
ships with  people  interested  in  new  intellectual  movements. 
This  congenial  intercourse  gave  a  great  impulse  to  her 
studies — she  had  been  for  a  number  of  years  a  wide  reader— 
and  we  find  her  reading  Greek  and  Latin  with  the  master 

1  Quoted  by  Mr.  Cross  from  the  Introduction  to  Felix  Holt. 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

of  the  Coventry  Grammar  School,  and  learning  Italian  and 
German.     She  wrote  to  a  friend  in  1839  : 

"  My  mind  presents  just  such  an  assemblage  of  disjointed  specimens 
of  history,  ancient  and  modern ;  scraps  of  poetry  picked  up  from 
Shakespeare,  Cowper,  Wordsworth,  and  Milton  ;  newspaper  topics  ; 
morsels  of  Addison  and  Bacon,  Latin  verbs,  geometry,  entomology, 
chemistry  ;  reviews  and  metaphysics — all  arrested  and  petrified  and 
smothered  by  the  fast-thickening  every -day  accession  of  actual  events, 
relative  anxieties,  and  household  cares  and  vexations." 

In  1846  appeared  her  first  work,  a  translation  from  the 
German  of  Strauss's  ' '  Life  of  Jesus, "  a  book  that  had  a 
wide  influence  upon  the  advanced  religious  thought  of  the 
time.  At  Coventry,  in  1848,  she  met  Emerson  :  "  I  have 
met  Emerson,"  she  wrote,  "the  first  man  I  have  ever  seen/* 
Mr.  Evans  died  in  1849,  and,  after  a  brief  residence 
abroad,  in  1850  she  became  an  assistant-editor  of  the  West- 
minster Review,  her  connection  with  which  she  contin- 
ued until  1853.  Although  editorial  work  proved  exacting 
and  painful  drudgery,  she  was  brought  by  it  into  London 
life,  and  through  her  connection  with  the  magazine  she 
met  many  of  the  foremost  literary  and  scientific  writers 
of  the  time,  especially  Harriet  Martineau,  Herbert  Spencer, 
and  George  Henry  Lewes. 

Lewes,  who  was  at  that  time  engaged  in  editorial  work 
also,  was  interested  in  scientific  and  philosophical  studies. 
His  best-known  works  are  his  "  Biographical  History  of 
Philosophy"  (1845)  and  his  "Life  of  Goethe"  (1855). 
George  Eliot's  friendship  for  Lewes  became  stronger,  and 
ended  in  1853  in  their  union.  The  closest  companionship 
and  mutual  aid  in  their  several  lines  of  intellectual  work 
followed  uninterruptedly  until  Mr.  Lewes's  death — the 
most  severe  blow  to  George  Eliot — in  1878.  Mr.  Lewes  was 
of  unimaginable  aid  and  assistance  to  his  wife,  especially  in 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

two  ways  :  he  took  upon  himself  all  business  cares  and 
negotiations  with  publishers ;  and  he  encouraged  her  in 
the  many  fits  of  depression  and  self -distrust  that  constantly 
beset  her,  even  after  her  reputation  was  established.  In- 
deed, it  was  due  to  his  encouragement  that  her  first  vent- 
ure in  fiction,  ''Amos  Barton,"  one  of  the  "Scenes  of 
Clerical  Life,"  was  completed  and  sent  to  the  publisher, 
Mr.  Blackwood. 
Of  this  event  George  Eliot  says  : 

"September,  1856,  made  a  new  era  in  my  life,  for  it  was  then  I  be- 
gan to  write  fiction.  It  had  always  been  a  vague  dream  of  mine  that 
sometime  or  other  I  might  write  a  novel ;  and  my  shadowy  conception 
of  what  the  novel  was  to  be  varied,  of  course,  from  one  epoch  of  my  life 
to  another.  But  I  never  went  further  towards  the  actual  writing  of 
the  novel  than  an  introductory  chapter- describing  a  Staffordshire  vil- 
lage and  the  life  of  the  neighboring  farm  houses  ;  and  as  the  years 
passed  on  I  lost  any  hope  that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  write  a  novel, 
just  as  I  desponded  about  everything  else  in  my  future  life.  I  always 
thought  I  was  deficient  in  dramatic  power,  both  of  construction  and 
dialogue,  but  I  felt  I  should  be  at  my  ease  in  the  descriptive  parts  of 
a  novel.  My  '  introductory  chapter '  was  pure  description ,  though  there 
were  good  materials  in  it  for  dramatic  presentation.  It  happened  to  be 
among  the  papers  I  had  with  me  in  Germany,  and  one  evening  at  Ber- 
lin something  led  me  to  read  it  to  George.  He  was  struck  with  it  as 
a  bit  of  concrete  description,  and  it  suggested  to  him  the  possibility  of 
my  being  able  to  write  a  novel,  though  he  distrusted — indeed,  disbe- 
lieved in— my  possession  of  any  dramatic  power.  Still,  he  began  to 
think  that  I  might  as  well  try  sometime  what  I  could  do  in  fiction, 
and  by  and  by,  when  we  came  back  to  England,  and  I  had  greater  suc- 
cess than  he  ever  expected  in  other  kinds  of  writing,  his  impression 
that  it  was  worth  while  to  see  how  far  my  mental  power  would  go  to- 
wards the  production  of  a  novel  was  strengthened.  He  began  to  say 
very  positively,  'You  must  try  and  write  a  story,'  and  when  we  were 
at  Tenby  he  urged  me  to  begin  at  once.  I  deferred  it,  however,  after 
my  usual  fashion  with  work  that  does  not  present  itself  as  an  absolute 
duty.  But  one  morning,  as  I  was  thinking  what  should  be  the  subject 
of  my  first  story,  my  thoughts  merged  themselves  into  a  dreamy  doze, 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

and  I  imagined  myself  writing  a  story,  of  which  the  title  was  '  The 
Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Reverend  Amos  Barton.'  I  was  soon  wide  awake 
again  and  told  G.  He  said,  '  Oh,  what  a  capital  title  !  '  and  from 
that  time  I  had  settled  in  my  mind  that  this  should  be  my  first  story. 
George  used  to  say,  '  It  may  be  a  failure — it  may  be  that  you  are  un- 
able to  write  fiction.  Or,  perhaps,  it  may  be  just  good  enough  to  war- 
rant your  trying  again.'  Again,  '  You  may  write  a  chef-d'ceuvre  at  once 
—there's  no  telling.'  But  his  prevalent  impression  was,  that  though 
I  could  hardly  write  a  poor  novel,  my  effort  would  want  the  highest 
quality  of  fiction,  dramatic  presentation.  He  used  to  say,  '  You  have 
wit,  description,  and  philosophy — those  go  a  good  way  towards  the 
production  of  a  novel.  It  is  worth  while  for  you  to  try  the  experiment.' 
We  determined  that  if  my  story  turned  out  good  enough  we  would 
send  it  to  Blackwood  ;  but  G.  thought  the  more  probable  result  was 
that  I  should  have  to  lay  it  aside  and  try  again.  But  when  we  returned 
to  Richmond  I  had  to  write  my  article  on  'Silly  Novels,'  and  my  re- 
view of  '  Contemporary  Literature  '  for  the  Westminster,  so  that  I  did 
not  begin  my  story  till  September  22d.  After  I  had  begun  it,  as  we 
were  walking  in  the  park,  I  mentioned  to  G.  that  I  had  thought  of 
the  plan  of  writing  a  series  of  stories,  containing  sketches  drawn  from 
my  own  observation  of  the  clergy,  and  calling  them  '  Scenes  from 
Clerical  Life,'  opening  with  '  Amos  Barton.'  He  at  once  accepted  the 
notion  as  a  good  one — fresh  and  striking  ;  and  about  a  week  after- 
wards, when  I  read  him  the  first  part  of  'Amos,'  he  had  no  longer  any 
doubt  about  my  ability  to  carry  out  the  plan.  The  scene  at  Cross  Farm, 
he  said,  satisfied  him  that  I  had  the  very  element  he  had  been  doubt- 
ful about  -  it  was  clear  I  could  write  good  dialogue.  There  still  re- 
mained the  question  whether  I  could  command  any  pathos  ;  and  that 
was  to  be  decided  by  the  mode  in  which  I  treated  Milly's  death.  One 
night  G.  went  to  town  on  purpose  to  leave  me  a  quiet  evening  for 
writing  it.  I  wrote  the  chapter  from  the  news  brought  by  the  shep- 
herd to  Mrs.  Hackit,  to  the  moment  when  Amos  is  dragged  from  the 
bedside,  and  I  read  it  to  G.  when  he  came  home.  We  both  cried 
over  it,  then  he  came  up  to  me  and  kissed  me,  saying,  '  I  think  your 
pathos  is  better  than  your  fun.'  " 

When  "  Amos  Barton "  was  sent  to  the  publishers, 
Blackwood  replied  to  Lewes  :  "  It  is  a  long  time  since  I 
have  read  anything  so  fresh,  so  humorous,  so  touching. " 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

And  from  this  time  (George  Eliot  was  then  thirty-seven)  * 
she  felt  that  her  work  in  literature  had  been  found. 
Henceforth  the  story  of  her  life  is  largely  an  account  of 
the  growth  of  her  novels,  interleaved  by  notes  of  travel  on 
short  visits  to  continental  countries  and  vacation  days  in 
rural  England.  "Amos  Barton  "  appeared  in  1857,  under 
the  nom  de  plume  of  George  Eliot ;  it  was  some  time  before 
the  author's  identity  was  found  out,  and  although  Dick- 
ens was  keen  enough  to  detect  the  feminine  hand  in  the 
"  Scenes  "  and  in  "  Adam  Bede,"  the  majority  of  the  crit- 
ics were  deceived  by  the  firm,  masculine  style  of  the  new 
novelist.  George  Eliot  at  once  began  another  story  for 
"  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,"  and  in  1859  appeared  "  Adam 
Bede." 

The  immediate  fame  that  this  novel  won  established  be- 
yond a  doubt  George  Eliot's  power  as  a  novelist.  Yet, 
after  each  work  was  completed,  she  suffered  from  severe 
mental  and  nervous  depression,  during  which  she  doubted 
the  continuation  of  her  powers.  Frequent  changes  of 
scene  and  country  life  were  necessary  to  restore  her  vigor. 
In  1860  the  "  Mill  on  the  Floss "  was  published,  and, 
while  assembling  in  her  mind  the  material  for  an  histor- 
ical novel  on  Italian  life,  she  wrote  "  Silas  Marner." 

AVe  have  the  first  mention  of  this  new  book  in  a  letter 
to  her  publisher  of  January,  1861  :  "I  am  writing  a  story 
which  came  across  my  other  plans  by  a  sudden  inspiration. 
I  don't  know  at  present  whether  it  will  resolve  itself  into 
a  book  short  enough  for  me  to  complete  before  Easter,  or 
whether  it  will  expand  beyond  that  possibility.  It  seems 
to  me  that  nobody  will  take  any  interest  in  it  but  my- 
self, for  it  is  extremely  unlike  the  popular  stories  going  ; 
but  Mr.  Lewes  declares  that  I  am  wrong,  and  says  it 
is  as  good  as  anything  I  have  done.  It  is  a  story  of  old- 
1  "  Hers  was  a  large,  slow  growing  nature." — J.  W.  Cross. 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

fashioned  village  life,  which  has  unfolded  itself  from  the 
merest  millet-seed  of  thought.  I  think  I  get  slower  and 
more  timid  in  my  writing,  but  perhaps  worry  about  houses 
and  servants  and  boys,  with  want  of  bodily  strength,  may 
have  had  something  to  do  with  that.  I  hope  to  be  quiet 
now." x  The  following  entry  in  her  journal,  February, 
1861,  is  concerned  with  "  Silas  Marner  : "  "  The  first 
month  of  the  new  year  has  been  passed  in  much  bodily 
discomfort,  making  both  work  and  leisure  heavy.  I  have 
reached  page  209  in  my  story,  which  is  to  be  in  one  vol- 
ume, and  I  want  to  get  it  ready  for  Easter,  but  I  dare 
promise  myself  nothing  with  this  feeble  body.-"  Later  in 
February  we  have  this  letter  to  Black  wood  :  "  I  send  you 
by  post  to-day  about  two  hundred  and  thirty  pages  of  MS. 
I  send  it  because,  in  my  experience,  printing  and  its  pre- 
liminaries have  always  been  rather  a  slow  business  ;  and  as 
the  story — if  published  at  Easter  at  all — should  be  ready 
by  Easter  week,  there  is  no  time  to  lose."  The  time  of 
composition  must,  therefore,  have  been  only  a  few  months. 
Another  letter  to  Mr.  Blackwood  states  the  author's  own 
opinion  in  regard  to  the  effect  of  the  story  :  "  I  don't 
wonder  at  your  finding  my  story,  as  far  as  you  have 
read  it,  rather  sombre  ;  indeed,  I  should  not  have  believed 
that  any  one  would  have  been  interested  in  it  but  myself 
(since  Wordsworth  is  dead) — if  Mr.  Lewes  had  not  been 
strongly  arrested  by  it.  But  I  hope  you  will  not  find  it  at 
all  a  sad  story,  as  a  whole,  since  it  sets — or  is  intended  to 
set — in  a  strong  light  the  remedial  influences  of  pure,  nat- 
ural relations.  The  Nemesis  is  a  very  mild  one.  I  have 
felt  all  through  as  if  the  story  would  have  lent  itself  best 
to  metrical  rather  than  to  prose  fiction,  especially  all  that 
relates  to  the  psychology  of  Silas  ;  except  that,  under  that 
treatment,  there  could  not  be  an  equal  play  of  humor.  It 
1  Life,  vol.  ii.,  page  206. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

came  to  me  first  of  all  quite  suddenly,  as  a  sort  of  legend- 
ary tale,  suggested  by  my  recollection  of  having  once,  in 
early  childhood,  seen  a  linen  -  weaver  with  a  bag  on  his 
back  ;  but,  as  my  mind  dwelt  on  the  subject,  I  became  in- 
clined to  a  more  realistic  treatment.  My  chief  reason  for 
wishing  to  publish  the  story  now  is  that  I  like  my  writings 
to  appear  in  the  order  in  which  they  are  written,  because 
they  belong  to  successive  mental  phases,  and  when  they 
are  a  year  behind  me  I  can  no  longer  feel  that  thorough 
identification  with  them  which  gives  zest  to  the  sense  of 
authorship.  I  generally  like  them  better  at  that  distance, 
but  then  I  feel  as  if  they  might  just  as  well  have  been  writ- 
ten by  somebody  else."  And  again  to  another  friend  : 
"  Silas  Marner  is  in  one  volume.  It  was  quite  a  sudden 
inspiration  that  came  across  me  in  the  midst  of  altogether 
different  meditations." 

From  time  to  time  George  Eliot's  letters  and  journals 
make  mention  of  the  satisfactory  success  of  "  Silas  Mar- 
ner," the  large  sales  that  were  made  of  this,  as  well  as  of 
her  previous  books  (in  this  practical  evidence  of  the  wide 
influence  of  her  work  George  Eliot  always  showed  keen 
interest),  and  of  the  translation  into  French.  The  entry 
in  her  journal  for  January  1,  1862,  reads  :  "  Mr.  Black- 
wood  sent  me  a  note  enclosing  a  letter  from  Montalembert * 
about  '  Silas  Marner/  /  began  again  my  novel  of  Romola." 

With  the  writing  of  "  Silas  Marner/'  the  first  period  of 
George  Eliot's  authorship  may  be  said  to  close.  Her  early 
works  were  in  a  sense  more  spontaneous,  more  unpremed- 
itated, less  careful  than  the  long  novels  to  come.  They 
were  written  in  the  flush  of  immediate  and  unexpected 
success  ;  the  later  novels  caused  her  more  anxiety  and  left 
her  more  exhausted.  About  the  time  of  the  composition 
of  "Silas  Marner,"  she  had  been  preparing  herself  for 
1  A  noted  French  historian. 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

"  Romola  "  by  two  visits  to  Florence  and  by  wide  reading 
in  Italian  history  and  literature.  The  list  of  books  di- 
rectly consulted  for  the  preparation  of  this  historical  novel 
covers  an  octavo  page,  so  thoroughly  did  George  Eliot 
gather  facts  for  her  imaginative  treatment.  "llomola" 
was  published  in  parts  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  during 
1863  ;  it  attained  even  greater  success  than  her  previous 
novels,  and  by  many  is  still  regarded  as  George  Eliot's 
masterpiece.  "  I  began  it  a  young  woman,"  she  said  of  it, 
"I  finished  it  an  old  woman." 

"  Felix  Holt,"  a  picture  of  the  radical  movement  in  Eng- 
lish politics,  followed  in  I860.  In  1868  "The  Spanish 
Gypsy,"  a  dramatic  poem  that  had  engaged  her  deepest  in- 
terest for  a  number  of  years,  was  published  and  favorably 
reviewed ;  most  lovers  of  George  Eliot,  however,  find  this 
poem, — and,  indeed,  all  her  poetry, — full  of  strenuous  and 
noble  thought  as  it  is,  inferior  in  power  to  her  novels. 
"  Middlemarch "  was  finished  in  1872.  Although  this 
long  novel  has  been  criticised  on  artistic  grounds  for  intro- 
ducing too  many  characters,  for  its  poor  construction,  and, 
in  places,  for  its  labored  style,  yet  to  many  it  is  the  richest 
fruit  of  George  Eliot's  experience.  Four  years  later  (1876) 
appeared  her  last  important  work,  "  Daniel  Deronda." 
Lewes  died  in  1878,  and  after  a  dark  period  of  bereavement 
and  depression,  Mrs.  Lewes  accepted  the  devotion  and  lov- 
ing care  of  an  old  family  friend  :  she  married  Mr.  J.  W. 
Cross.  She  died  in  December  of  the  same  year,  1880. 

George  Eliot  wrote  in  her  journal  of  1861 :  "  Alas  !  I 
could  have  done  much  more  if  I  had  been  well,  but  that 
regret  applies  to  most  years  of  my  life."  This  fact  of  con- 
stant ill-health  and  almost  morbid  depression,  against  which 
she  forced  herself  to  her  work,  is  noticeable  from  her  early 
years.  It  necessitated  the  warm  sympathy  and  regard  of  a 
circle  of  intimate  friends,  and  the  unwearied  care  and  de- 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

votion  of  Mr.  Lewes,  and,  at  the  very  end,  of  Mr.  Cross, 
to  make  her  literary  labors  possible.  Her  nature  was  ex- 
cessively timid,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  encouragement 
and  faith  of  those  life-long  companions,  probably  George 
Eliot's  great  novels  would  never  have  been  accomplished. 
Her  mind,  as  well  as  her  body,  needed  constant  refresh- 
ment from  the  labors  of  composition  and  her  voluminous 
studies  ;  hence  we  find,  especially  during  the  later  years 
of  her  life,  repeated  changes  of  scene,  flying  trips  to  the 
Continent,  and  short  visits  to  the  country.  Once  away 
from  London,  in  the  quiet  English  country  she  knew  so 
well,  or  absorbed  in  the  pleasures  of  travel,  her  mind  threw 
off  its  distrust,  and  plans  for  new  work  began  to  form  them- 
selves. 

Reference  has  been  made  to  the  scholarly  pains  which 
George  Eliot  took  in  collecting  historical  material  for 
"Romola."  Probably  no  other  great  novelist  has  been  as 
learned,  in  the  sense  of  widely  read,  as  was  George  Eliot. 
Her  list  of  reading,  at  any  time  from  the  Coventry  period 
until  her  death,  was  enormous  and  diversified.  Greek, 
Latin,  Italian,  French,  Spanish,  German  she  used  fluently 
and  for  pleasure,  and  the  great  masterpieces  of  literature 
in  those  languages  she  read  and  re-read.  Outside  of  pure 
literature  her  tastes  were  unusually  developed  in  two  lines 
— philosophy  (especially  theological  and  religious  philos- 
ophy) and  science.  Her  early  studies,  we  have  already 
seen,  were  in  German  philosophy.  The  long  friendship 
with  Herbert  Spencer,  and  the  intimate  interest  in  Lewes's 
scientific  work,  made  her  familiar  with  the  scientific  move- 
ment of  the  time.  Her  eager  mind  absorbed  the  results  of 
the  progressive  thought  of  her  contemporaries.  During  the 
periods  of  her  intermittent  residence  in  London  many  dis- 
tinguished scientists  frequented  her  home  at  The  Priory, 
Regent's  Park.  George  Eliot  never  mingled  in  general 


INTRODUCTION  XX  V 

society,  but  on  Sunday  afternoons  The  Priory  was  a  meet- 
ing-place for  men  distinguished  in  various  callings.  Her 
life  was  passed  in  a  period  of  great  intellectual  expansion, 
especially  religious  and  scientific,  and  everywhere  her 
novels  bear  evidence  of  that  fact. 

George  Eliot's  large  features  were  not  beautiful ;  but 
her  face  was  impressive.  Hers  was  an  earnest  nature, 
serious  with  itself  and  with  others,  and  in  spite  of  the 
humor  that  lights  up  her  best  work,  her  outlook  on  life  is 
always  moral,  often  tragic — never  flippant  or  merely  gay. 
"  I  will  never  write  anything  to  which  my  whole  heart, 
mind,  and  conscience  don't  consent,  so  that  I  may  feel  that 
it  was  something — however  small — which  wanted  to  be 
done  in  this  world,  and  that  I  am  just  the  organ  for  that 
small  bit  of  work."  And  again  :  "  My  books  were  written 
out  of  my  deepest  belief,  and  as  well  as  I  can  for  the  great 
public,  and  every  sincere,  strong  word  will  find  its  mark 
in  that  public."  The  moral  earnestness .  that  pervades 
her  novels  is  the  source  of  her  great  strength,  and  also, 
to  some  critics,  of  the  weakness  of  her  work  in  artistic 
value. 


II.  STYLE 

A  CONTEMPORARY  reviewer  praised  George  Eliot's  style  in 
the  translation  from  Strauss  in  these  words  :  "  A  faithful, 
elegant,  and  scholar-like  translation.  Whoever  reads  these 
volumes  without  any  reference  to  the  German  must  be 
pleased  with  the  easy,  perspicuous,  idiomatic,  and  harmoni- 
ous force  of  the  English  style.  But  he  will  be  still  more 
satisfied  when,  on  turning  to  the  original,  he  finds  that  the 
rendering  is  word  for  word,  thought  for  thought,  and  sen- 
tence for  sentence.  In  preparing  so  beautiful  a  rendering 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

as  the  present,  the  difficulties  can  have  been  neither  few 
nor  small  in  the  way  of  preserving  in  various  parts  of 
the  work  the  exactness  of  the  translation,  combined 
with  that  uniform  harmony  and  clearness  of  style  which 
imparts  to  the  volumes  before  us  the  air  and  spirit  of  an 
original." 

George  Eliot's  prose  may  be  called  scholarly  in  the  sense 
that  it  reflects  her  wide  reading  and  her  acquaintance  with 
the  best  thought  of  her  time.  Many  of  her  happiest  fig- 
ures of  speech  are  drawn  from  scientific,  especially  chemical 
and  biological,  studies,  and  hardly  a  chapter  of  narrative  or 
description  can  be  found  in  her  novels  that  does  not  betray 
acquaintance  with  scientific  or  philosophical  thought.  In- 
deed, one  defect  in  the  prevailing  lucidity  of  her  diction  is 
due  to  the  excessive  use  of  abstract  terms,  that  may  be  at- 
tributed to  scientific  reading  and  to  the  study  and  trans- 
lation of  much  German  philosophical  prose.  But  George 
Eliot's  style  is  not  scholarly  in  the  sense  of  an  accurate  use 
of  English  idiom.  Although  the  later  editions  of  her 
novels  were  carefully  revised,  yet  in  many  details,  such  as 
the  constant  misuse  of  a  word  (e.g.,  " egoism  "for  "ego- 
tism"), improper  prepositions,  incomplete  or  misplaced 
tenses,  here  and  there  the  use  of  a  singular  noun  with  a 
plural  verb  or  pronoun  of  reference  (as  the  use  of  "every- 
one" with  "their"),  and  the  confusing  misplacement  of 
phrases,  her  style  is  not  above  reproach.  Attention  has 
been  called  in  this  edition  to  some  slips  in  style  in  "  Silas 
Marner."  The  student,  while  not  necessarily  making  a 
grammar  lesson  out  of  a  charming  story,  should  be  con- 
stantly alive  to  inaccuracies  of  style  and  to  slovenly  dic- 
tion. George  Eliot's  prose  has  its  peculiar  excellences  that 
will  be  noted,  but  it  cannot  be  called  "  pure  "  in  the  sense 
that  we  call  Jane  Austen's,  or  Thackeray's,  or  Hawthorne's 
prose  pure. 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

There  is  another  characteristic  of  George  Eliot's  style, 
that  often  renders  her  stories  uncongenial  to  the  student 
who  is  not  naturally  bookish  :  she  not  only  uses  a  very 
wide  vocabulary,  but  she  employs  also  many  words  of  Latin 
(and  hence  unfamiliar)  derivation.  For  instance,  on  page 
3  of  this  edition  we  find  "  Superstition  clung  easily  round 
every  person  or  thing  that  was  at  all  unwonted  or  even 
intermittent  and  occasional ; "  on  page  12  she  describes 
Marner  and  his  friend  in  these  ponderous  words,  "  The  ex- 
pression of  trusting  simplicity  in  Marner's  face,  heightened 
by  that  absence  of  special  observation,  that  defenceless, 
deer-like  gaze  which  belongs  to  large  prominent  eyes,  was 
strongly  contrasted  by  the  self-complacent  suppression  of 
inward  triumph  that  lurked  in  the  narrow  slanting  eyes  and 
compressed  lips  of  William  Dane  ; "  and  again  we  find  "  du- 
biety," "  the  ready  transition  of  infancy,"  "  erudite  re- 
search ; "  "  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the 
burden  of  her  misdeeds  being  borne  vicariously  by  father 
Silas."  At  times,  however,  George  Eliot  intentionally  em- 
ploys this  vocabulary  of  long  Latin  words  for  the  sake  of 
humor ;  the  weight  of  the  diction  is  in  absurd  contrast  to 
the  simple  matters  stated  :  "  Even  if  any  brain  in  Eave- 
loe  had  put  the  said  two  facts  together,  I  doubt  whether  a 
combination  so  injurious  to  the  prescriptive  respectability 
of  a  family  with  a  mural-monument  and  venerable  tankards, 
would  not  have  been  suppressed  as  an  unsound  tendency. 
But  Christmas  puddings,  brawn,  and  abundance  of  spiritu- 
ous liquors  throwing  the  mental  originality  into  the  chan- 
nel of  nightmare,  are  great  preservatives  against  a  danger- 
ous spontaneity  of  waking  thought." 

Although  this  habit  of  using  long  words  slightly  unfa- 
miliar in  ordinary  reading,  and  often  general  rather  than 
concrete  or  special,  takes  away  the  point  here  and  there 
and  makes  the  reading  of  a  novel  tiresome,  it  should 


xxvin  INTRODUCTION 

be  remembered  that  it  is  often  the  fault  of  the  reader 
rather  than  of  the  author.  George  Eliot's  novels  give 
the  careful  student  an  admirable  chance  to  increase  his 
knowledge  of  words.  He  should  not  attempt  to  read  "  Si- 
las Marner,"  for  instance,  without  frequently  consulting 
an  unabridged  dictionary.  He  may  find  at  first  glance 
some  general,  hazy  meaning  in  a  descriptive  passage,  but 
he  cannot  appreciate  its  full  sense  or  power  until  he  has 
made  the  vocabulary  his  own.  In  short,  he  must  use  a 
dictionary ;  this  school  edition  is  not  intended  to  furnish 
an  escape  from  the  discipline  of  reading. 

If  we  find  George  Eliot's  prose  bookish  and  Latin  in  the 
descriptive  and  analytic  parts,  in  dealing  with  rustic  life, 
with  homely  characters,  such  as  Mrs.  Winthrop  or  Mr. 
Macey,  the  novelist  shows  her  familiarity  Avith  the  simple, 
strongly  Anglo-Saxon  usage  of  workaday  life.  Her  dia- 
lect is  said  to  be  remarkably  true  to  life  ;  it  is  more  than 
that  —  it  is  crisp  and  racy.  Chapters  VI.  and  VII.  of 
"  Silas  Marner  "  furnish  good  examples  of  this  power  ;  and 
the  conversation  of  the  party  at  the  Red  House  is  nicely 
calculated  to  indicate  a  slight  rise  in  social  position.  In 
all  the  purely  dramatic  parts  of  her  story  the  novelist  aban- 
dons her  learned  vocabulary  for  the  homely  idioms  she 
knew  intimately. 

That  George  Eliot  loved  the  country  itself,  the  lanes, 
the  flat  fields,  the  very  earth,  her  figures  of  speech  con- 
stantly show.  Note,  for  instance,  the  following  :  Marner's 
hoarding  of  money  "  made  a  loam  deep  enough  for  the 
seeds  of  desire  ; "  his  life  had  shrunk  away  from  the  past, 
"  like  a  rivulet  that  has  sunk  far  down  from  the  grassy 
fringe  of  its  old  breadth  into  a  little  shivering  thread  that 
cuts  a  groove  for  itself  in  the  barren  sand  ;  "  "  where  their 
mother  earth  shows  another  lap." 

The  student's  attention  should  also  be  called  to  George 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

Eliot's  firm  paragraphing.  In  spite  of  the  interruption  of 
dialogue  the  author's  finely  methodical  mind  divided  her 
narrative  or  descriptive  passages  into  distinct  units.  Each 
paragraph  advances  the  thought,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
paragraph  the  emphasis  of  the  thought  is  reached.  It 
would  be  well  for  the  student  to  summarize  some  chapters 
of  the  story  paragraph  by  paragraph  in  order  that  he  may 
appreciate  the  advantages  of  a  careful  use  of  this  valuable 
element  in  composition. 

George  Eliot's  style  apart  from  her  subject-matter,  in 
spite  of  the  defects  already  mentioned,  is  an  excellent  in- 
tellectual tonic  for  a  young  student.  Her  wide  interests, 
the  association  of  ideas  that  her  words  carry,  are  reflected 
from  the  firm,  varied,  and  copious  diction.  She  is  never 
pretty,  and  rarely  pedantic  ;  she  writes  not  to  show  off  her 
powers,  but  to  make  thoroughly  real  her  thoughts  and 
emotions. 


III.    METHODS 

THE  student  will  quickly  observe,  as  he  reads  "  Silas 
Marner,"  that  George  Eliot  is  not  content  to  unfold  the 
story  and  to  present  the  characters  by  the  simple  means  of 
describing  the  people  and  places  and  narrating  the  few 
events.  The  novelist  does  describe — and  admirably — as  in 
Chapter  I.,  the  village  of  Raveloe  (page  6),  or  Marner's 
appearance  in  Raveloe  (page  7),  and  Squire  Cass  (page 
86),  and  Eppie's  life  with  Silas  in  Chapter  XVI.  She 
also  tells  such  past  events  as  are  necessary  to  the  reader's 
understanding  of  the  story  ;  for  example,  near  the  close 
of  the  first  chapter  two  pages  of  condensed  narration  give 
us  Marner's  history  up  to  the  time  of  his  coming  to 
Raveloe.  The  novelist  also  relates  in  the  dramatic  form  of 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

conversation,  as,  in  the  scene  between  Godfrey  Cass  and 
his  wife  and  Silas  Marner  over  the  possession  of  Eppie 
(pages  203-213).  Wherever  George  Eliot  merely  describes 
or  narrates  facts  she  shows  her  great  power  of  carrying  the 
reader  rapidly  along  in  the  current  of  her  story,  and  of 
making  him  feel  the  real  existence  of  the  people  who  are 
talking  and  acting. 

But  for  her  purpose,  which  is  always  that  of  expressing 
a  moral  or  ethical  truth,  this  impersonal  method  of  story- 
telling is  not  complete.  She  does  not  choose  to  let  the 
reader  supply  for  himself  the  mental  and  moral  life,  the 
psychology,  of  her  characters.  She  is  not  content  with 
leaving  him  on  the  outside  of  the  story,  as  we  are  left  in 
every -day  life,  to  notice  only  external  actions  and  appear- 
ances, and  to  speculate  about  causes  and  motives.  She 
explains  and  discusses  her  characters  and  their  acts,  and  in 
this  way  takes  the  reader  with  her  into  the  secrets  and 
deeper  underlying  processes  that  cause  the  facts  which  ap- 
pear to  make  the  story.  The  analysis  of  characters  and 
events,  as  this  process  of  explanation  and  discussion  is 
called,  is  to  George  Eliot  more  important  than  the  charac- 
ters or  events  in  themselves,  and  she  constantly  interrupts 
the  thread  of  her  narrative  to  make  the  analysis  clear. 
Thus  she  hopes  to  realize  the  life  of  her  imaginary  beings 
more  completely  than  would  the  reader  who  saw  merely  the 
outside. 

Let  us  take  an  example  from  "  Silas  Marner."  On  page 
5  of  Chapter  I.  the  novelist  seeks  to  explain  why  ignorant 
village  people  regarded  Marner  with  superstition.  First, 
using  colloquial  language  to  make  the  feeling  real,  she 
presents  the  simple  reasoning  of  his  neighbors  that  the 
weaver  must  possess  evil  powers  ;  then  she  discusses  for  the 
space  of  a  dozen  lines  this  process  of  mind  among  such 
people.  In  the  same  way  George  Eliot  explains  later  in 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

the  chapter,  page  11,  why  Marner  regarded  his  fits  as  a 
kind  of  divine  interference  in  his  life.  Again,  in  Chaptei 
II.,  after  first  describing  the  growth  in  Silas  Marner  of  the 
habit -.pf  hoarding  money,  she  explains  the  state  of  mind 
that  permitted  him  to  adopt  this  unnatural  way  of  life. 
The  same  method  is  used  in  the  case  of  less  interesting 
characters  ;  Godfrey  Cass,  for  example,  is  morally  weak 
and  irresolute,  though  not  at  bottom  a  bad  fellow.  The 
exact  state  of  mind  which  puts  him  into  his  brother's  power 
is  analyzed  at  length  in  Chapter  III.,  page  35  ;  and  after 
introducing  an  episode  between  Godfrey  and  his  vicious 
brother,  the  novelist  continues  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  her 
discussion  of  the  fundamental  weakness  of  the  young  man. 
At  the  close  of  this  analysis  she  departs  still  farther  from 
the  ordinary  methods  of  telling  a  story  by  description  and 
narration.  "  The  yoke  a  man  creates  for  himself  by  wrong- 
doing will  breed  hate  in  the  kindliest  nature  ;  and  the 
good-humored,  affectionate-hearted  Godfrey  Cass  was  fast 
becoming  a  bitter  man,  visited  by  cruel  wishes  that  seemed 
to  enter,  and  depart,  and  enter  again,  like  demons  who  had 
found  in  him  a  ready  garnished  home."  Here,  for  the 
moment  leaving  the  immediate  interests  of  the  story,  she 
stops  to  reflect,  or  moralize,  or  draw  a  lesson  from  the  situa- 
tion. This  manner  of  discussing  the  moral  sides  of  the 
story,  so  frequently  adopted  by  George  Eliot,  is  often 
called  the  didactic  (teaching)  method.  Although  she  in- 
serts these  passages  of  direct  teaching  with  comparative 
infrequency,  many  examples  of  the  didactic  method  may 
be  found  in  "Silas  Marner"  (for  good  instances  see  page 
93,  Chapter  IX.,  "Favorable  chance,  I  fancy,  is  the  god 
of  all  men  who/'  etc.  ;  or  page  150,  Chapter  XIIL,  "The 
prevarication  and  white-lies,"  etc.). 

The  student  should  note  the  presence  of  these  various 
methods  as  the  story  unfolds  itself.     He  will  find  that  in 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

many  chapters  the  analysis  and  the  teaching  are  easily  sep- 
arated from  the  pure  narrative,  and  that  they  frequently 
occur  at  the  close  of  chapters,  where  the  novelist  seems  to 
pause  for  reflection  before  presenting  a  new  episode.  It  is 
also  noteworthy  that,  as  the  story  progresses  and  the  char- 
acters are  well  understood,  the  analysis  grows  less  and 
less  frequent.  Part  II.  contains  few  examples  of  pure 
analysis. 

Many  critics  and  readers  of  George  Eliot  have  found  this 
analytic  and  didactic  habit  of  hers  the  chief  stumbling-block 
in  the  way  of  a  complete  enjoyment  of  her  work.  They 
feel  that  the  story  should  tell  itself  unaided  by  reflection 
or  analysis,  and  that  the  moral  should  be  shown  by  the 
events,  not  directly  taught.  Certainly  few  English  novelists 
teach  so  directly  as  George  Eliot,  or  explain  causes  and 
motives  so  persistently.  Thackeray  and  Dickens,  her  two 
great  contemporaries  in  fiction,  moralize  frequently,  but 
rarely  analyze  deeply.  Scott's  pages  of  analysis  or  teaching 
are  few  and  far  between,  and  Hawthorne  rarely  "  preaches/' 
although  he  constantly  describes  the  hidden  workings  of  the 
mind.  It  will  be  interesting  for  the  student,  while  reading 
"  Silas  Marner,"  to  contrast  the  novelist's  methods  used  in 
telling  this  simple  story  with  the  narrative  in  the  "  House 
of  Seven  Gables."  But  our  purpose  is  not  a  judicial  one  in 
reading  "Silas  Marner."  The  novelist  has  presented  her 
characters  definitely  and  has  unfolded  a  moral  situation — 
that  of  a  cruelly  warped  nature  reconstructed  by  a  fresh 
and  deep  human  interest.  Perhaps  no  other  way  of  tell- 
ing such  a  story  would  have  brought  out  its  spiritual 
tragedy.  And,  before  all  other  things,  George  Eliot  was 
concerned  with  the  spiritual  aspect  of  life.  She  desired  to 
express  this  in  aesthetic,  i.e.,  beautiful,  or  artistic  form;  in 
writing  the  following  (taken  from  a  letter  to  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison),  she  explains  her  ideal :  "I  think  aesthetic  teach- 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

ing  is  the  highest  of  all  teaching,  because  it  deals  in  life 
with  its  highest  complexity.  But  if  it  ceases  to  be  purely 
aesthetic — if  it  lapses  anywhere  from  the  picture  to  the 
diagram — it  becomes  the  most  offensive  of  all  teaching." 


IV.  THE  STORY 

"  IT  is  a  story  of  old-fashioned  village  life,  which  has 
unfolded  itself  from  the  merest  millet-seed  of  thought." 
In  these  words  George  Eliot  first  describes  "  Silas  Marner." 
Later,  in  another  letter  to  her  publisher,  she  touches  upon  a 
different  aspect  of  the  tale  :  .  .  "it  sets,  or  is  intended 
to  set,  in  a  strong  light  the  remedial  influences  of  pure, 
natural  relations."  These  two  statements  present  the  im- 
portant elements  of  the  story, — the  rural  setting  of  the  ac- 
tion in  an  English  village  at  the  beginning  of  our  century, 
where  the  simplicity  of  the  social  life  is  adapted  to  bring 
out  in  high  relief  the  tragedy  of  Silas  ;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  spiritual  truth  of  Silas's  regeneration,  caused  by 
the  awakening  of  the  affections  through  his  love  for  the 
helpless  child.  Each  element  is  essential  to  the  strength 
of  the  other,  and  throughout  the  book  each  is  kept  in  sight. 
The  superstition,  ignorance,  and  conservatism  of  the 
Ravel oe  villagers,  at  the  Squire's  house  as  well  as  at  the 
Rainbow,  form  the  background  for  the  strange  figure  of 
the  weaver,  Silas  Marner.  He  himself  belongs  to  a  re- 
mote epoch  of  pre-factory  days,  when  isolation  tended  to 
produce  simplicity  and  intensity  of  character,  and  igno- 
rance also.  Thus  his  position  in  life  makes  the  drama 
more  possible  and  more  forcible.  He  loses  his  faith  in  the 
justice  of  God  and  man  by  an  unexpected  and  undeserved 
calamity ;  it  is  restored  by  an  unforeseen  and  mysterious 
blessing. 


xxxi'v  INTRODUCTION 

The  story  is  brightened  and  made  more  real  by  a  num. 
ber  of  minor  characters  who  take  part  in  the  action.  God- 
frey Cass  through  his  folly  and  weakness  of  will  prepares 
unhappiness  for  himself  and  his  wife,  and  yet,  in  just  rec- 
ognition of  the  complexity  of  human  events,  the  novelist 
shows  how  his  weakness  and  failure  are  a  means  for  the 
salvation  of  Silas,  So,  also,  George  Eliot  uses  the  villain- 
ous Dunsey  as  an  instrument  in  abstracting  Silas's  gold. 
Until  the  loss  of  his  gold  hoard,  which  had  become  his 
God,  had  taken  place,  Silas  was  not  in  a  condition  to  be 
reached  by  outside  concerns. 

The  firm  outline  of  the  minor  lives  in  the  story  show 
George  Eliot's  power  of  character  drawing  as  much  as  the 
delineation  of  Silas.  The  villagers,  especially  Mr.  Macey 
and  Dolly  Winthrop,  the  doctor,  old  Squire  Cass,  and  the 
Lammeters  are  all  described  vividly  and  made  to  live  as 
independent  human  beings  who  interest  us.  Peculiarities 
of  character  are  displayed  so  far  as  we  need  to  know  them. 
Each  actor  receives  due  attention  ;  no  one  is  slurred,  or 
left  vague.  Thus  the  sense  of  real  life — all  important  in 
telling  a  story — is  created  by  the  careful  treatment  given 
to  the  minor  characters. 

We  may  find,  then,  three  essential  requirements  of  good 
fiction  satisfied  in  "  Silas  Marner  "  :  Scene,  Character,  and 
Plot.  And  all  three  are  kept  in  equal  prominence.  The 
novelist  does  not  allow  the  strain  of  Silas's  tragedy  to  over- 
shadow the  humorous  aspects  of  the  life  about  him,  nor 
does  she  neglect  to  relate  his  life  with  the  other  people  of 
the  scene.  In  other  words  "  Silas  Marner  "  is  a  story  ;  the 
fine  analysis  of  motive  and  character,  the  many  sane  and 
sagacious  reflections  on  life,  should  not  permit  us  to  for- 
get that  we  are  reading  a  story,  i.e.,  enjoying  a  picture 
of  human  life. 

EGBERT  HERKICK. 


SUGGESTIONS   FOE  TEACHERS 
AND  STUDENTS 

IN  preparing  the  present  volume,  the  second  of  the  series  of 
books  for  "reading/3  the  editor  has  had  two  distinct  aims. 
First,  he  has  endeavored  to  give  the  student,  by  means  of 
the  introduction  and  the  notes,  all  the  information  neces- 
sary for  a  thorough  understanding  of  the  book  in  question. 
Second,  he  has  attempted  to  lead  him  on  to  read,  sponta- 
neously and  with  pleasure,  other  books  of  the  same  sort 
or  of  cognate  sorts.  In  pursuance  of  both  aims  he  now 
ventures  to  suggest  to  such  teachers,  pupils,  or  chance 
readers  as  have  no  better  plans  of  their  own,  the  follow- 
ing scheme  of  study : 

I.  The  pupil's  first  step  must  be  to  read  at  home,  or  in 
his  school  hours  for  study — preferably  the  former — a  por- 
tion of  "  Silas  Marner,"  varying  in  length  from  five  to 
twenty-five  pages,  according  to  his  age  and  experience. 
In  each  case  he  should  read  the  assigned  passage  twice, 
first  with  a  view  to  getting  an  intelligent  idea  of  the  sub- 
ject-matter in  general,  and  of  obtaining  from  it  as  much 
pleasure  as  possible,  and  second,  with  a  view  to  assuring 
himself  that  he  knows  precisely  what  the  author  means  by 
every  word,  sentence,  and  paragraph  of  the  passage.  He 
should  not,  of  course,  concern  himself,  in  any  but  the  rar- 
est cases,  with  the  etymology  of  particular  words,  or  with 
the  ferreting  out  of  remote  allusions.  All  words  not  to  be 
found  in  a  good  dictionary,  all  allusions  that  cannot  be 
understood  by  a  boy  or  girl  of  ordinary  information,  are 


xxxvi  SUGGESTIONS  FOR  TEACHERS 

explained  in  the  notes.  The  notes  must  not  be  relied  on, 
however,  to  escape  the  discipline  of  reading.  A  pupil  who 
does  not  have  a  sufficiently  definite  idea  of  common  words  or 
expressions,  which  the  author  uses  and  which  are  not  ex- 
plained in  the  notes,  to  appreciate  the  author's  meaning 
or  the  point  of  his  allusion,  must  consult  an  encyclopae- 
dia, a  dictionary,  or  some  Aviser  friend. 

II.  The  second  step  in  the  treatment  of  a  book  pre- 
scribed for  reading  is  taken  in  the  class-room.     Here  the 
instructor,  with  as  little  formality  as  possible,  should  make 
certain  that  each  student  has  mastered  the  part  of  the  book 
designated,  i.e.,  that  he  has  an  intelligent  idea  of  the  sub- 
ject-matter, as  a  whole  and  in  detail ;  that  he  really  under- 
stands what  the  author's  object  was  in  this  particular  part 
of  his  work  ;  and  that  he  enjoys  and  appreciates  the  au- 
thor's wit,  humor,  satire,  or  whatever  the  dominant  quality 
of  the  passage  may  be. 

III.  It  is  important,  also,  that  the  student  should  connect 
the  information  he  obtains  from  the  passage  in  question 
with  the  information  afforded  by  his  other  studies  and  by 
his  own  experience  and  observation.     Wherever  "  Silas  Mar- 
ner,"  for  example,  brings  forward  matters  touched  on  in 
any  other  branch   of   study,  or  questions   of   thought  or 
action  made  prominent  by  local  interest,  the  pupil's  mind 
should    be  taught  to  fasten  tenaciously   on   these   points, 
that  he   may   realize   the    interconnection    between    sub- 
jects of  study  seemingly  diverse,  and  gain  a  flexibility  of 
mind  that  passes  readily  from  one  point  of  view  to  another, 
and  makes  every  possible  use  of  every  fact  and  fancy  it  has 
once  come  into  the  possession  of. 

IV.  It  is  even  more  important  that  the  pupil  should  be 
stimulated  to  carry  on  lines  of  study  and  reading  which  the 
prescribed  book  suggests.     He  may  with  profit  read  a  short 
biography  of  George  Eliot  or  passages  from  Mr.  Cross's  lar- 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR   TEACHERS  xxxvii 

ger  "  Life  and  Letters,"  for  more  detailed  information  in 
regard  to  her  life  than  that  furnished  by  the  Introduction. 
He  should  be  encouraged  to  read  the  "  Scenes  of  Clerical 
Life"  and,  perhaps,  "Komola"  and  "Adam  Bede,"  or 
"  Middlemarch."  These  thoughtful  novels  should,  in 
their  turn,  aid  to  develop  in  him  a  taste,  too  frequently 
wholly  absent,  for  thoughtful  reading  of  all  sorts  and  for 
observation  and  reflection  in  regard  to  the  life  around  him. 
After  a  further  acquaintance  with  George  Eliot,  the  stu- 
dent would  do  well  to  read  Jane  Austen's  "  Pride  and 
Prejudice,"  or  Mrs.  Gaskell's  "  Cranford,"  or  Charlotte 
Bronte's  "Jane  Eyre/'  all  noteworthy  novels  of  English 
life  by  English  women. 

V.  Exercises  in  composition,  based  upon  the  book, 
should  not  be  neglected.  These  may  be  mere  summaries, 
or  simple  analyses  of  plot  or  character.  If  such  exercises 
be  continued  long,  an  effort  should  be  made  to  introduce 
other  elements  than  that  of  summarizing — the  mere  giving 
back  again,  in  presentable  form,  of  facts  already  desig- 
nated. The  student  should  learn  to  gather  facts  for  himself. 
It  is  his  power  of  observation  that  needs  to  be  trained, 
when  once  his  power  of  acquiring  what  is  pointed  out  to 
him  is  thoroughly  tested.  It  is  recommended,  therefore, 
that  composition-subjects  be  chosen,  as  much  as  possible, 
after  the  summarizing  is  once  done  thoroughly,  from  the 
subjects  of  reading  and  study  referred  to  under  IV.,  or 
else  from  material  furnished  by  the  student's  own  life  and 
experience. 

For  this  purpose  frequent  short  themes  (containing  from 
100  to  300  words)  are  more  useful  than  longer,  more  pre- 
tentious efforts  at  "essay-writing."  These  papers  need 
not  invariably  be  criticised  in  detail  by  the  instructor, 
but  may  be  read  aloud  and  discussed  before  the  class. 
Such  exercises,  it  is  believed,  will  encourage  the  student  to 
write  briefly  and  naturally  on  what  he  sees  in  books  and 


xxxviii          SUGGESTIONS  FOR  TEACHERS 

thinks  about  them.  Some  hints  for  composition-subjects 
are  given  in  the  notes.  Furthermore,  wherever  it  is  pos- 
sible, the  student  should  be  encouraged  to  keep  a  note- 
book in  which  may  be  gathered  information  about  books, 
biographical  and  critical  facts,  etc. 

VI.  It  would  be  folly  to  lay  down  one  plan  of  treating 
such  a  book  as  "  Silas  Marner "  to  be  followed  in  all 
classes.  Individual  needs  both  of  students  and  teachers 
will  necessitate  varying  methods  of  teaching  fiction  in  the 
class-room.  All  instructors  will  agree,  however,  that  the 
one  important  object  in  teaching  literature,  at  least  to 
young  students,  is  to  arouse  fresh,  spontaneous  interest  in 
the  work  as  literature, — not  as  literary  history,  ethics,  or 
grammar.  .  To  this  end  the  editor  doubts  the  utility  of 
any  mechanical  scheme  for  analyses  of  plot  or  character, 
such  as  the  "  diagraming  "  of  the  moral  development  of 
persons  presented  in  the  author's  tale.  The  "  diagram  " 
will  too  easily  convince  the  student  that  the  story,  which 
he  should  read  with  delight,  as  if  it  were  a  tale  of  real 
life,  has  been  written  merely  to  illustrate  a  precept  and  to 
point  a  moral.  A  thoughtful  reading  of  "  Silas  Marner  " 
will  reveal  to  the  pupil  the  deep  moral  concern  which 
George  Eliot  has  in  life,  but  he  should  not  be  taught  by  a 
mathematical  representation  that  the  moral  lesson  is  the 
only  one  to  be  drawn  from  the  book. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. — The  best  and  authorized  edition  of 
George  Eliot's  works  is  published  by  William  Black  wood 
and  Sons,  Edinburgh.  There  are  many  American  reprints. 
The  only  authoritative  source  of  information  about  George 
Eliot's  life  is  "  George  Eliot's  Life,  as  Related  in  her  Let- 
ters and  Journals  "  (London,  1885),  arranged  and  edited 
by  her  husband,  Mr.  J.  W.  Cross.  An  American  reprint 
has  been  made  by  Harper  and  Brothers  in  three  volumes, 
and  an  edition  in  paper  has  been  issued  in  the  Franklin 
Square  Series.  There  is  a  short  biography  by  Oscar 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR   TEACHERS  xxxix 

Browning  in  the  Great  Writers  Series,  and  another  by 
Mathilde  Blind  in  the  Eminent  Women  Series.  To  the 
former  is  appended  a  good  bibliography.  An  excellent 
biographical  notice  is  that  by  Leslie  Stephen  in  the  ' '  Dic- 
tionary of  National  Biography."  Among  many  critical 
articles  may  be  mentioned  those  by  Edward  Dowden,  in 
"  Studies  in  Literature,  1789-1877  ;"  by  Edmond  Scherer, 
"  Etudes  critiques  sur  la  litterature  contemporaine,"  vols. 
i.,  v.,  and  viii.  (see  also  Saintsbury's  translation  of 
Scherer's  essays  on  English  literature) ;  by  R.  H.  Hutton, 
in  "  Essays  on  Some  of  the  Modern  Guides  of  English 
Thought  in  Matters  of  Faith ; "  by  P.  W.  H.  Myers,  in 
"  Essays,  Modern  ; "  and  by  Henry  James,  in  "  Partial 
Portraits." 


xl 


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SILAS    MARNER 

THE   WEAVER1    OF    KAVELOE 

GEORGE  ELIOT 


"A  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts." 

— WORDSWORTH. 


1  See  the  article  on  "Weaving"  in  tlie  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  for 
a  full  description  of  the  hand-loom  and  the  weaver's  work,  to  which 
reference  is  made  throughout  the  story.  The  power-loom,  or  factory 
weaving,  did  not  hecome  general  in  England  before  1825. 


PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  days l  when  the  spinning-wheels 2  hummed  busily 
in  the  farmhouses  —  and  even  great  ladies,  clothed  in 
silk  and  thread-lace,  had  their  toy  spinning-wheels  of  pol- 
ished oak — there  might  be  seen  in  districts  far  away  among 
the  lanes,3  or  deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  hills,  certain  pallid 
undersized  men,  who,  by  the  side  of  the  brawny  country- 
folk, looked  like  the  remnants  of  a  disinherited  race.  The 
shepherd's  dog  barked  fiercely  when  one  of  these  alien- 
looking  men  appeared  on  the  upland,  dark  against  the 
early  winter  sunset ;  for  what  dog  likes  a  figure  bent  under 
a  heavy  bag  ? — and  these  pale  men  rarely  stirred  abroad 
without  that  mysterious  burden.  The  shepherd  himself, 
though  he  had  good  reason  to  believe  that  the  bag  held 
nothing  but  flaxen  thread,  or  else  the  long  rolls  of  strong 
linen  spun  from  that  thread,  was  not  quite  sure  that  this 
trade  of  weaving,  indispensable  though  it  was,  could  be 
carried  on  entirely  without  the  help  of  the  Evil  One.  In 
that  far-off  time  superstition  clung  easily  round  every  per- 
son or  thing  that  was  at  all  unwonted,  or  even  intermit- 

J"In  the  days  when  the  spinning  wheels  hummed  busily  in  the 
farmhouses  ; "  "in  that  far-off  time  "  (page  3)  ;  "in  the  early  years  of 
this  century  "  (page  4)  ;  the  time  of  the  story  is  vaguely  indicated. 
For  more  direct  reference,  see  note  2,  page  7,  and  note  3,  page  28. 

2  Spinning-wheels  were  used  at  home  to  prepare  the  yarn  from  the 
flux,  which  was  then  given  to  the  weaver. 

3  Rough  paths  between  the  hedges  that  line  English  cross-roads  ;  to 
be  distinguished  from  turnpikes  or  highways. 


4  8ILA8  MARNER 

tent1  and  occasional  merely,  like  the  visits  of  the  pedlar 
or  the  knife-grinder.  No  one  knew  Avhere  wandering  men 
had  their  homes  or  their  origin  ;  and  how  was  a  man  to  be 
explained  unless  you  at  least  knew  somebody  who  knew 
his  father  and  mother  ?  To  the  peasants  of  old  times,  the 
world  outside  their  own  direct  experience  was  a  region  of 
vagueness  and  mystery :  to  their  untravelled  thought  a 
state  of  wandering  was  a  conception  as  dim  as  the  winter 
life  of  the  swallows  that  came  back  with  the  spring  ;  and 
even  a  settler,  if  he  came  from  distant  parts,  hardly  ever 
ceased  to  be  viewed  with  a  remnant  of  distrust,  which 
would  have  prevented  any  surprise  if  a  long  course  of  in- 
offensive conduct  on  his  part  had  ended  in  the  commission 
of  a  crime  ;  especially  if  he  had  any  reputation  for  knowl- 
edge, or  showed  any  skill  in  handicraft.  All  cleverness, 
whether  in  the  rapid  use  of  that  difficult  instrument  the 
tongue,  or  in  some  other  art  unfamiliar  to  villagers,  was  in 
itself  suspicious  :  honest  folk,  born  and  bred  in  a  visible 
manner,  were  mostly  not  over-wise  or  clever — at  least,  not 
beyond  such  a  matter  as  knowing  the  signs  of  the  weather  ; 
and  the  process  by  which  rapidity  and  dexterity  of  any 
kind  were  acquired  was  so  wholly  hidden,  that  they  par- 
took of  the  nature  of  conjuring.2  In  this  way  it  came  to 
pass  that  those  scattered  linen- weavers — emigrants  from 
the  town  into  the  country — were  to  the  last  regarded  as 
aliens  by  their  rustic  neighbours,  and  usually  contracted 
the  eccentric  habits  which  belong  to  a  state  of  loneliness. 

In  the  early  years  of  this  century,  such  a  linen-weaver, 
named  Silas  Marner,  worked  at  his  vocation  3  in  a  stone 
cottage  that  stood  among  the  nutty  hedgerows  near  the 
village  of  Raveloe,4  and  not  far  from  the  edge  of  a  deserted 

1  "  Unwonted,  or  even  intermittent," — a  good  example  of  George 
Eliot's  diction.     See  INTRODUCTION,  under  Style. 

2  Magic. 

3  A  correct  use  of  the  word  ;  distinguish  from  avocation. 

4  We  gather  from  the  description  of  the  country  (see  page  6  :   "it 
lay  in  the  rich  central  plain  ")  that  Raveloe  was  situated  in  the  fertile 


SILAS  MARNER  5 

stone-pit.  The  questionable  sound  of  Silas's  loom,  so  unlike 
the  natural  cheerful  trotting  of  the  winnowing-machine, 
or  the  simpler  rhythm  of  the  flail,  had  a  half-fearful  fasci- 
nation for  the  Raveloe  boys,  who  would  often  leave  off 
their  nutting  or  birds'-nesting  to  peep  in  at  the  window  of 
the  stone  cottage,  counterbalancing  a  certain  awe  at  the 
mysterious  action  of  the  loom,  by  a  pleasant  sense  of  scorn- 
ful superiority,  drawn  from  the  mockery  of  its  alternating 
noises,  along  with  the  bent,  tread-mill  attitude  of  the 
weaver.  But  sometimes  it  happened  that  Marner,  pausing 
to  adjust  an  irregularity  in  his  thread,  became  aware  of  the 
small  scoundrels,  and,  though  chary  of  his  time,  he  liked 
their  intrusion  so  ill  that  he  would  descend  from  his  loom, 
and,  opening  the  door,  would  fix  on  them  a  gaze  that  was 
always  enough  to  make  them  take  to  their  legs  in  terror. 
For  how  was  it  possible  to  believe  that  those  large  brown 
protuberant  eyes  in  Silas  Marner's  pale  face  really  saw 
nothing  very  distinctly  that  was  not  close  to  them,  and  not 
rather  that  their  dreadful  stare  could  dart  cramp,  or  rick- 
ets,1 or  a  wry 2  mouth  at  any  boy  who  happened  to  be  in 
the  rear  ?  They  had,  perhaps,  heard  their  fathers  and 
mothers  hint  that  Silas  Marner  could  cure  folk's 3  rheuma- 
tism if  he  had  a  mind,  and  add,  still  more  darkly,  that  if 
you  could  only  speak  the  devil  fair  enough,  he  might  save 
you  the  cost  of  the  doctor.  Such  strange  lingering  echoes 
of  the  old  demon- worship 4  might  perhaps  even  now  be 
caught  by  the  diligent  listener  among  the  grey-haired 
peasantry  ;  for  the  rude  mind  with  difficulty  associates  the 
ideas  of  power  and  benignity.  A  shadowy  conception  of 
power  that  by  much  persuasion  can  be  induced  to  refrain 

central  counties  of  England,  perhaps  in  Warwickshire,  which  was  for 
a  long  time  George  Eliot's  home. 

1  A  disease  of  children. 

!  Twisted. 

3  Examine  the  use  of  this  word  ;  see  also  page  9. 

4  Lesser  gods,  or  demons,  were  feared  and  worshipped  in  all  primitive 
religions. 


6  SILAS  MARNER 

from  inflicting  harm,  is  the  shape  most  easily  taken  by  the 
sense  of  the  Invisible  in  the  minds  of  men  who  have 
always  been  pressed  close  by  primitive  wants,  and  to  whom 
a  life  of  hard  toil  has  never  been  illuminated  by  any  en- 
thusiastic religious  faith.  To  them  pain  and  mishap  pre- 
sent a  far  wider  range  of  possibilities  than  gladness  and 
enjoyment :  their  imagination  is  almost  barren  of  the  im- 
ages that  feed  desire  and  hope,  but  is  all  overgrown  by 
recollections  that  are  a  perpetual  pasture  to  fear.  "Is 
there  anything  you  can  fancy  that  you  would  like  to  eat  ?  " 
I l  once  said  to  an  old  labouring  man,  who  was  in  his  last 
illness,  and  who  had  refused  all  the  food  his  wife  had 
offered  him.  "  No/'  he  answered,  "  I've  never  been  used 
to  nothing  but  common  victual,  and  I  can't  eat  that." 
Experience  had  bred  no  fancies  in  him  that  could  raise  the 
phantasm 2  of  appetite. 

And  Raveloe  was  a  village  where  many  of  the  old  echoes 
lingered,  undro  \vned  by  new  voices.  Not  that  it  was  one  of 
those  barren  parishes 3  lying  on  the  outskirts  of  civilization 
— inhabited  by  meagre  sheep  and  thinly-scattered  shep- 
herds :  on  the  contrary,  it  lay  in  the  rich  central  plain  of 
what  we  are  pleased  to  call  Merry  England,  and  held  farms 
which,  speaking  from  a  spiritual  point  of  view,  paid 
highly-desirable  tithes.4  But  it  was  nestled  in  a  snug 
well-wooded  hollow,  quite  an  hour's  journey  on  horseback 
from  any  turnpike,5  where  it  was  never  reached  by  the 
vibrations  of  the  coach-horn,  or  of  public  opinion.  It  was 
an  important-looking  village,  with  a  fine  old  church  and 
large  churchyard  in  the  heart  of  it,  and  two  or  three  large 

1  Note  the  unexpected  introduction  of  the  author's  personality  by 
the  use  of  this  pronoun. 

2  An  apparition  or  illusion  ;  compare pJiantom. 

3  See  note  2,  page  28. 

4  A  tax  (originally  a  tenth  part  of  the  yearly  proceeds  of  an  estate) 
for  the  support  of  the  parish  church. 

5  Main  highways  for  the  use  of  which  a  tax,  called  a  toll,  is  charged ; 
still  common  in  parts  of  the  United  States. 


brick-and-stone  homesteads,1  with  well-walled  orchards  and 
ornamental  weathercocks,  standing  close  upon  the  road, 
and  lifting  more  imposing  fronts  than  the  rectory,  which 
peeped  from  among  the  trees  on  the  other  side  of  the 
churchyard  : — a  village  which  showed  at  once  the  summits 
of  its  social  life,  and  told  the  practised  eye  that  there  was 
no  great  park  and  manor-house  in  the  vicinity,  but  that 
there  were  several  chiefs  in  Raveloe  who  could  farm  badly 
quite  at  their  ease,  drawing  enough  money  from  their 
bad  farming,  in  those  war  times,2  to  live  in  a  rollicking 
fashion,  and  keep  a  jolly  Christmas,  Whitsun,3  and  Easter 
tide. 

It  was  fifteen  years  since  Silas  Marner  had  first  come  to 
Eaveloe  ;  he  was  then  simply  a  pallid  young  man,  with 
prominent  short-sighted  brown  eyes,  whose  appearance 
would  have  had  nothing  strange  for  people  of  average  cult- 
ure and  experience,  but  for  the  villagers  near  whom  he 
had  come  to  settle  it  had  mysterious  peculiarities  which 
corresponded  with  the  exceptional  nature  of  his  occupa- 
tion, and  his  advent  from  an  unknown  region  called 
"  North'ard."  So  had  his  way  of  life  : — he  invited  no 
comer  to  step  across  his  door-sill,  and  he  never  strolled 
into  the  village  to  drink  a  pint  at  the  Rainbow,4  or  to  gos- 
sip at  the  wheelwright's  :  he  sought  no  man  or  woman, 
save  for  the  purposes  of  his  calling,  or  in  order  to  supply 
himself  with  necessaries  ;  and  it  was  soon  clear  to  the 

1  Homes    of    independent     landholders,    distinguished    from    the 
"  manor-house,"  which  was  the  residence  of  the  chief  proprietor  in 
the  neighborhood. 

2  The  war  with  France  lasted,  with  a  few  interruptions,  from  1793 
to  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  1815,  and  forced  up  the  price  of  domestic 
farm  products.     See  page  28. 

3  Whitsunday  or  Whitsuntide,  a  church  festival  commemorated  on 
the  seventh  Sunday  after  Easter.   "Tide "  is  an  old  English  expression 
for  "time,"  or  "season,"  now  obsolete. 

4  The    village    inn  ;   small   hotels  in   England  still  retain   fanciful 
names,  such  as  "The  Cheshire  Cheese,"  "The  White  Swan,"  "The 
Golden  Lion,"  etc. 


8  8ILA8  MARNER 

Raveloe  lasses  1  that  he  would  never  urge  one  of  them  to 
accept  him  against  her  will — quite  as  if  he  had  heard  them 
declare  that  they  would  never  marry  a  dead  man  come  to 
life  again.  This  view  of  Marner's  personality  was  not 
without  another  ground  than  his  pale  face  and  unexam- 
pled eyes  ;  for  Jem  Kodney,  the  mole-catcher,  averred  that 
one  evening  as  he  was  returning  homeward  he  saw  Silas 
Marner  leaning  against  a  stile  with  a  heavy  bag  on  his 
back,  instead  of  resting  the  bag  on  the  stile  as  a  man  in  his 
senses  would  have  done  ;  and  that,  on  coming  up  to  him, 
he  saw  that  Marner's  eyes  were  set  like  a  dead  man's,  and 
he  spoke  to  him,  and  shook  him,  and  his  limbs  were  stiff, 
and  his  hands  clutched  the  bag  as  if  they'd  been  made  of 
iron  ;  but  just  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  the  weaver 
was  dead,  he  came  all  right  again,  like,  as  you  might  say, 
in  the  winking  of  an  eye,  and  said  "  Good  night,"  and 
walked  off.  All  this  Jem  swore  he  had  seen,  more  by 
token 2  that  it  was  the  very  day  he  had  been  mole-catching 
on  Squire 3  Cass's  land,  down  by  the  old  saw-pit.  Some 
said  Marner  must  have  been  in  a  "  fit,"  a  word  which 
seemed  to  explain  things  otherwise  incredible  ;  but  the  ar- 
gumentative Mr.  Macey,  clerk4  of  the  parish,  shook  his 
head,  and  asked  if  anybody  was  ever  known  to  go  off  in  a 
fit  and  not  fall  down.  A  fit  was  a  stroke,  wasn't  it  ?  and 
it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  stroke  to  partly 5  take  away  the 
use  of  a  man's  limbs  and  throw  him  on  the  parish,6  if  he'd 
got  no  children  to  look  to.  No,  no  ;  it  was  no  stroke  that 
would  let  a  man  stand  on  his  legs,  like  a  horse  between  the 
shafts,  and  then  walk  off  as  soon  as  you  can  say  "Gee  !" 

1  "Lass"  is  the  feminine  form  for  "lad,"  an  old  English  word  in 
familiar  use,  now  becoming  obsolete. 
5  Colloquial  for  "  especially  as." 

3  For  a  full  definition  of  "  squire,"  see  note  2,  page  28. 

4  The  clerk  of  the  parish,  or  parish  clerk,  is  the  layman  who  leads 
in  reading  the  responses  in  the  service  of  the  Church  of  England. 

5  Note  the  position  of   "partly;"   is  this  grammatical  usage  estab- 
lished ? 

6  For  support.     "  Parish  "  in  this  sense  is  equivalent  to  "  town." 


SILAS  MARNER  9 

But  there  might  be  such  a  thing  as  a  man's  soul  being  loose 
from  his  body,  and  going  out  and  in,  like  a  bird  out  of  its 
nest  and  back  ;  and  that  was  how  folks  got  over- wise,  for 
they  went  to  school  in  this  shell-less  state  to  those  Avho 
could  teach  them  more  than  their  neighbours  could  learn 
with  their  five  senses  and  the  parson.  And  where  did  Mas- 
ter Marner  get  his  knowledge  of  herbs  from — and  charms 
too,  if  he  liked  to  give  them  away  ?  Jem  Rodney's  story 
was  no  more  than  what  might  have  been  expected  by  any- 
body who  had  seen  how  Marner  had  cured  Sally  Gates,  and 
made  her  sleep  like  a  baby,  when  her  heart  had  been  beat- 
ing enough  to  burst  her  body,  for  two  months  and  more, 
while  she  had  been  under  the  doctor's  care.  He  might 
cure  more  folks  if  he  would  ;  but  he  was  worth  speaking 
fair,1  if  it  was  only  to  keep  him  from  doing  you  a  mis- 
chief. 

It  was  partly  to  this  vague  fear  that  Marner  was  in- 
debted for  protecting  him  from  the  persecution  that  his 
singularities  might  have  drawn  upon  him,  but  still  more 
to  the  fact  that,  the  old  linen-weaver  in  the  neighbouring 
parish  of  Tarley  being  dead,  his  handicraft  made  him  a 
highly  welcome  settler  to  the  richer  housewives2  of  the 
district,  and  even  to  the  more  provident  cottagers,  who 
had  their  little  stock  of  yarn  at  the  year's  end.  Their 
sense  of  his  usefulness  would  have  counteracted  any  repug- 
nance or  suspicion  which  was  not  confirmed  by  a  deficiency 
in  the  quality  or  the  tale 3  of  the  cloth  he  wove  for  them. 
And  the  years  had  rolled  on  without  producing  any  change 
in  the  impressions  of  the  neighbours  concerning  Marner, 
except  the  change  from  novelty  to  habit.  At  the  end  of 
fifteen  years  the  Raveloe  men  said  just  the  same  things 
about  Silas  Marner  as  at  the  beginning  :  they  did  not  say 

1  So  addressing  him  as  to  please,  rather  than  to  irritate  him. 

2  The  families  in  the  two  or  three  large  brick  and  stone  homesteads 
already  mentioned,  distinguished  from  the  laborers  and  small  farmers 
called  cottagers. 

s  Number  or  amount,  a  sense  of  the  word  now  nearly  obsolete. 


10  SILAS  MARNER 

them  quite  so  often,  but  they  believed  them  much  more 
strongly  when  they  did  say  them.  There  was  only  one 
important  addition  which  the  years  had  brought  :  it  was, 
that  Master  Marner  had  laid  by  a  fine  sight  of  money  some- 
where, and  that  he  could  buy  up  "  bigger  men  " 1  than 
himself. 

But 2  while  opinion  concerning  him  had  remained  nearly 
stationary,  and  his  daily  habits  had  presented  scarcely  any 
visible  change,  Marner's  inward  life  had  been  a  history  and 
a  metamorphosis,3  as  that  of  every  fervid  nature  must  be 
when  it  has  fled,  or  been  condemned  to  solitude.  His 
life,  before  he  came  to  Raveloe,  had  been  filled  with  the 
movement,  the  mental  activity,  and  the  close  fellowship, 
which,  in  that  day  as  in  this,  marked  the  life  of  an  ar- 
tisan 4  early  incorporated  in  a  narrow  religious  sect,5  where 
the  poorest  layman  has  the  chance  of  distinguishing  him- 
self by  gifts  of  speech,  and  has,  at  the  very  least,  the 
weight  of  a  silent  voter  in  the  government  of  his  commu- 
nity. Marner  was  highly  thought  of  in  that  little  hidden 
world,  known  to  itself  as  the  church  assembling  in  Lantern 
Yard  ;  he  was  believed  to  be  a  young  man  of  exemplary 
life  and  ardent  faith  ;  and  a  peculiar  interest  had  been 
centred  in  him  ever  since  he  had  fallen,  at  a  prayer-meet- 
ing, into  a  mysterious  rigidity  and  suspension  of  conscious- 
ness,6 which,  lasting  for  an  hour  or  more,  had  been  mis- 
taken for  death.  To  have  sought  a  medical  explanation 
for  this  phenomenon  would  have  been  held  by  Silas  him- 
self, as  well  as  by  his  minister  and  fellow-members,  a  wil- 
ful self -exclusion  from  the  spiritual  significance  that  might 

1  To  buy  up  "bigger  men,"  still  current  slang. 

8  Is  the  use  of  this  conjunction  in  this  place  justifiable  ?     Why  ? 

3  From  what  language  is  this  word  derived  ? 

4  Distinguish  from  artist  or  laborer. 

5  Made  a  member  of  one  of  the  many  independent  churches.     See 
also  page  9. 

6  "  Mysterious  rigidity  and  suspension  of  consciousness."  the  signs 
of  a  cataleptic  fit.     Marner's  catalepsy  affects  the  development  of  the 
story  at  several  vital  points. 


SILAS  MARNER  H 

lie  therein.  Silas  was  evidently  a  brother  selected  for  a 
peculiar  discipline  ;  and  though  the  effort  to  interpret 
this  discipline  was  discouraged  by  the  absence,  on  his  part, 
of  any  spiritual  vision  during  his  outward  trance,1  yet  it 
was  believed  by  himself  and  others  that  its  effect  was  seen 
in  an  accession  of  light  and  fervour.2  A  less  truthful  man 
than  he  might  have  been  tempted  into  the  subsequent 
creation  of  a  vision  in  the  form  of  resurgent  memory  ;  a 
less  sane  man  might  have  believed  in  such  a  creation  ;  but 
Silas  was  both  sane  and  honest,  though,  as  with  many 
honest  and  fervent  men,  culture  had  not  defined  any  chan- 
nels for  his  sense  of  mystery,  and  so  it  spread  itself  over 
the  proper  pathway  of  inquiry  and  knowledge.  He  had 
inherited  from  his  mother  some  acquaintance  with  medic- 
inal herbs  and  their  preparation — a  little  store  of  wisdom 
which  she  had  imparted  to  him  as  a  solemn  bequest — but 
of  late  years  he  had  had  doubts  about  the  lawfulness  of 
applying  this  knowledge,  believing  that  herbs  could  have 
no  efficacy  without  prayer,  and  that  prayer  might  suffice 
without  herbs ;  so  that  his  inherited  delight  to  wander 
through  the  fields  in  search  of  foxglove  and  dandelion  and 
coltsfoot,  began  to  wear  to  him  the  character  of  a  tempta- 
tion. 

Among  the  members  of  his  church  there  was  one  young 
man,  a  little  older  than  himself,  with  whom  he  had  long 
lived  in  such  close  friendship  that  it  was  the  custom  of 
their  Lantern  Yard  brethren  to  call  them  David  and  Jona- 
than.3 The  real  name  of  the  friend  was  William  Dane, 
and  he,  too,  was  regarded  as  a  shining  instance  of  youth- 
ful piety,  though  somewhat  given  to  over-severity  towards 
weaker  brethren,  and  to  be  so  dazzled  by  his  own  light  as 
to  hold  himself  wiser  than  his  teachers.  But  whatever 
blemishes  others  might  discern  in  William,  to  his  friend's 
mind  he  was  faultless  ;  for  Marner  had  one  of  those  im- 

1  What  is  the  exact  meaning  of  the  word  ? 

*  I.e.,  of  spiritual  insight  and  zeal. 

3  For  the  story  of  David  and  Jonathan,  see  I  Samuel  xviii.  11. 


12  SILAS  MAKNER 

pressible  '  self -doubting  natures  which,  at  an  inexperienced 
age,  admire  imperativeness  and  lean  on  contradiction. 
The  expression  of  trusting  simplicity  in  Marner's  face, 
heightened  by  that  absence  of  special  observation,  that 
defenceless,  deer-like  gaze  which  belongs  to  large  promi- 
nent eyes,  was  strongly  contrasted  by  the  self-complacent 
suppression  of  inward  triumph  that  lurked  in  the  narrow 
slanting  eyes  and  compressed  lips  of  William  Dane.  One 
of  the  most  frequent  topics  of  conversation  between  the 
two  friends  was  Assurance  of  salvation  : 2  Silas  confessed 
that  he  could  never  arrive  at  anything  higher  than  hope 
mingled  with  fear,  and  listened  with  longing  wonder  when 
William  declared  that  he  had  possessed  unshaken  assurance 
ever  since,  in  the  period  of  his  conversion,  he  had  dreamed 
that  he  saw  the  words  "  calling  and  election  sure  "  stand- 
ing by  themselves  on  a  white  page  in  the  open  Bible. 
Such  colloquies  have  occupied  many  a  pair  of  pale-faced 
weavers,  whose  unnurtured  souls  have  been  like  young 
winged  things,  fluttering  forsaken  in  the  twilight. 

It  had  seemed  to  the  unsuspecting  Silas  that  the  friend- 
ship had  suffered  no  chill  even  from  his  formation  of  an- 
other attachment  of  a  closer  kind.  For  some  months  he 
had  been  engaged  to  a  young  servant-woman,3  waiting  only 
for  a  little  increase  to 4  their  mutual  savings  in  order  to 
their  marriage ;  and  it  was  a  great  delight  to  him  that 
Sarah  did  not  object  to  William's  occasional  presence  in 
their  Sunday  interviews.  It  was  at  this  point  in  their 
history  that  Silas's  cataleptic  fit  occurred  during  the  prayer- 
meeting  ;  and  amidst  the  various  queries  and  expressions 
of  interest  addressed  to  him  by  his  fellow-members,  Will- 
iam's suggestion  alone  jarred  with  the  general  sympathy 
towards  a  brother  thus  singled  out  for  special  dealings. 
He  observed  that,  to  him,  this  trance  looked  more  like  a 

'Better,  "impressionable." 

a  Note  the  correct  use  of  the  colon  to  point  forward  or  specify. 

3 Usually,  "serving-woman,"  or  "servant." 

4  "Addition  to  "  or  "  increase  in  "  would  be  the  customary  idiom. 


SILAS  MANNER  13 

visitation  of  Satan  than  a  proof  of  divine  favour,  and  ex- 
horted his  friend  to  see  that  he  hid  no  accursed  thing 
within  his  soul.  Silas,  feeling  bound  to  accept  rebuke  and 
admonition  as  a  brotherly  office,  felt  no  resentment,  but 
only  pain,  at  his  friend's  doubts  concerning  him  ;  and  to 
this  was  soon  added  some  anxiety  at  the  perception  that 
Sarah's  manner  towards  him  began  to  exhibit  a  strange 
fluctuation  between  an  effort  at  an  increased  manifestation 
of  regard  and  involuntary  signs  of  shrinking  and  dislike. 
He  asked  her  if  she  wished  to  break  off  their  engagement ; 
but  she  denied  this :  their  engagement  was  known  to  the 
church,  and  had  been  recognized  in  the  prayer-meetings  ; 
it  could  not  be  broken  off  without  strict  investigation,  and 
Sarah  could  render  no  reason  that  would  be  sanctioned  by 
the  feeling  of  the  community.  At  this  time  the  senior 
deacon  was  taken  dangerously  ill,  and,  being  a  childless 
widower,  he  was  tended  night  and  day  by  some  of  the 
younger  brethren  or  sisters.  Silas  frequently  took  his  turn 
in  the  night- watching  with  William,  the  one  relieving  the 
other  at  two  in  the  morning.  The  old  man,  contrary  to 
expectation,  seemed  to  be  on  the  way  to  recovery,  when 
one  night  Silas,  sitting  up  by  his  bedside,  observed  that 
his  usual  audible  breathing  had  ceased.  The  candle  was 
burning  low,  and  he  had  to  lift  it  to  see  the  patient's  face 
distinctly.  Examination  convinced  him  that  the  deacon 
was  dead — had  been  dead  some  time,  for  the  limbs  were 
rigid.  Silas  asked  himself  if  he  had  been  asleep,  and 
looked  at  the  clock  :  it  was  already  four  in  the  morning. 
How  was  it  that  William  had  not  come  ?  In  much  anx- 
iety he  went  to  seek  for  help,  and  soon  there  were  several 
friends  assembled  in  the  house,  the  minister  among  them, 
while  Silas  went  away  to  his  work,  wishing  he  could  have 
met  William  to  know  the  reason  of  his  non-appearance. 
But  at  six  o'clock,  as  he  was  thinking  of  going  to  seek  his 
friend,  William  came,  and  with  him  the  minister.  They 
came  to  summon  him  to  Lantern  Yard,  to  meet  the 
church  members  there  ;  and  to  his  inquiry  concerning  the 


14  SILAS  MARNER 

cause  of  the  summons  the  only  reply  was,  "You  will  hear." 
Nothing  further  was  said  until  Silas  was  seated  in  the  ves- 
try, in  front  of  the  minister,  with  the  eyes  of  those  who 
to  him  represented  God's  people  fixed  solemnly  upon  him. 
Then  the  minister,  taking  out  a  pocket-knife,  showed  it  to 
Silas,  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  where  he  had  left  that 
knife  ?  Silas  said,  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  left  it 
anywhere  out  of  his  own  pocket — but  he  was  trembling  at 
this  strange  interrogation.  He  was  then  exhorted  not  to 
hide  his  sin,  but  to  confess  and  repent.  The  knife  had 
been  found  in  the  bureau  by  the  departed  deacon's  bed- 
side— found  in  the  place  where  the  little  bag  of  church 
money  had  lain,  which  the  minister  himself  had  seen  the 
day  before.  Some  hand  had  removed  that  bag ;  and 
whose  hand  could  it  be,  if  not  that  of  the  man  to  whom 
the  knife  belonged  ?  For  some  time  Silas  was  mute  with 
astonishment  :  then  he  said,  "God  will  clear  me:  I  know 
nothing  about  the  knife  being  there,  or  the  money  being 
gone.  Search  me  and  my  dwelling ;  you  will  find  nothing 
but  three  pound  five  l  of  my  own  savings,  which  William 
Dane  knows  I  have  had  these  six  months."  At  this  Will- 
iam groaned,  but  the  minister  said,  "  The  proof  is  heavy 
against  you,  brother  Marner.  The  money  was  taken  in 
the  night  last  past,  and  no  man  was  with  our  departed 
brother  but  you,  for  William  Dane  declares  to  us  that  he 
was  hindered  by  sudden  sickness  from  going  to  take  his 
place  as  usual,  and  you  yourself  said  that  he  had  not 
come  ;  and,  moreover,  you  neglected  the  dead  body." 

"  I  must  have  slept,"  said  Silas.  Then  after  a  pause, 
he  added,  "Or  I  must  have  had  another  vjsitation  like 
that  which  you  have  all  seen  me  under,  so  that  the  thief 
must  have  come  and  gone  while  I  was  not  in  the  body,  but 
out  of  the  body.  But,  I  say  again,  search  me  and  my 
dwelling,  for  I  have  been  nowhere  else." 

The  search  was  made,  and  it  ended — in  William  Dane's 
finding  the  well-known  bag,  empty,  tucked  behind  the 
1  Three  pounds  and  five  shillings — about  sixteen  dollars. 


SILAS  MARNER  15 

chest  of  drawers  in  Silas's  chamber  !  On  this  William  ex- 
horted his  friend  to  confess,  and  not  to  hide  his  sin  any 
longer.  Silas  turned  a  look  of  keen  reproach  on  him,  and 
said,  "  William,  for  nine  years  that  we  have  gone  in  and 
out  together,  have  you  ever  known  me  tell  a  lie  ?  But 
God  will  clear  me." 

"  Brother,"  said  William,  "  how  do  I  know  what  yon 
may  have  done  in  the  secret  chambers  of  your  heart,  to 
give  Satan  an  advantage  over  you  ?  " 

Silas  was  still  looking  at  his  friend.  Suddenly  a  deep 
flush  came  over  his  face,  and  he  was  about  to  speak  impet- 
uously, when  he  seemed  checked  again  by  some  inward 
shock,  that  sent  the  flush  back  and  made  him  tremble. 
But  at  last  he  spoke  feebly,  looking  at  William. 

"  I  remember  now — the  knife  wasn't  in  my  pocket." 

William  said,  "  I  know  nothing  of  what  you  mean/' 
The  other  persons  present,  however,  began  to  inquire 
where  Silas  meant  to  say  that  the  knife  was,  but  he  would 
give  no  further  explanation  :  he  only  said,  "  I  am  sore 
stricken  j1  I  can  say  nothing.  God  will  clear  me." 

On  their  return  to  the  vestry  there  was  further  delibera- 
tion. Any  resort  to  legal  measures  for  ascertaining  the 
culprit  was  contrary  to  the  principles  of  the  church  in 
Lantern  Yard,  according  to  which  prosecution  was  forbid- 
den to  Christians,  even  had  the  case  held  less  scandal  to 
the  community.  But  the  members  were  bound  to  take 
other  measures  for  finding  out  the  truth,  and  they  resolved 
on  praying  and  drawing  lots.  This  resolution  can  be  a 
ground  of  surprise  only  to  those  who  are  unacquainted 
with  that  obscure  religious  life  which  has  gone  on  in  the 
alleys  of  our  towns.  Silas  knelt  with  his  brethren,  relying 
on  his  own  innocence  being  certified  by  immediate  divine 

1  Note  the  Biblical  words  and  phrases  used  by  members  of  the  sect, 
and  also  the  appeal  to  lots.  The  aim  in  such  religious  communities  is 
to  adopt  as  far  as  possible  the  life  and  customs  indicated  in  the  Bible. 
The  casting  of  lots  was  customary  in  pagan  times  as  well  as  among 
primitive  Christians. 


1C  SILAS  MARNER 

interference,  but  feeling  that  there  was  sorrow  and  mourn= 
ing  behind  for  him  even  then — that  his  trust  in  man  had 
been  cruelly  bruised.  The  lots  declared  that  Silas  Marner 
was  guilty.  He  was  solemnly  suspended  from  church- 
membership,  and  called  upon  to  render  up  the  stolen 
money  :  only  on  confession,  as  the  sign  of  repentance, 
could  he  be  received  once  more  within  the  folds  of  the 
church.  Marner  listened  in  silence.  At  last,  when  every 
one  rose  to  depart,  he  went  towards  William  Dane  and 
said,  in  a  voice  shaken  by  agitation — 

"  The  last  time  I  remember  using  my  knife,  was  when  I 
took  it  out  to  cut  a  strap  for  you.  I  don't  remember  put- 
ting it  in  my  pocket  again.  You  stole  the  money,  and  you 
have  woven  a  plot  to  lay  the  sin  at  my  door.  But  you  may 
prosper,  for  all  that :  there  is  no  just  God  that  governs  the 
earth  righteously,  but  a  God  of  lies,  that  bears  witness 
against  the  innocent. " 

There  was  a  general  shudder  at  this  blasphemy. 

William  said  meekly,  "  I  leave  our  brethren  to  judge 
whether  this  is  the  voice  of  Satan  or  not.  I  can  do  noth- 
ing but  pray  for  you,  Silas." 

Poor  Marner  went  out  with  that  despair  in  his  soul — 
that  shaken  trust  in  God  and  man,  which  is  little  short  of 
madness  to  a  loving  nature.  In  the  bitterness  of  his 
wounded  spirit,  he  said  to  himself,  "  She  will  cast  me  off 
too."  And  he  reflected  that,  if  she  did  not  believe  the 
testimony  against  him,  her  whole  faith  must  be  upset  as 
his  was.  To  people  accustomed  to  reason  about  the  forms 
in  which  their  religious  feeling  has  incorporated  itself,1 
it  is  difficult  to  enter  into  that  simple,  untaught  state  of 
mind  in  which  the  form  and  the  feeling  have  never  been 
severed  by  an  act  of  reflection.  We  are  apt  to  think  it  in- 
evitable that  a  man  in  Marner's  position  should  have  be- 
gun to  question  the  validity  of  an  appeal  to  the  divine 
judgment  by  drawing  lots  ;  but  to  him  this  would  have 

'"The  forms  in  which  their  religious  feeling  has  incorporated  it- 
self," i.e.,  questions  of  church  ritual  and  worship. 


SILAS  MARNER  17 

been  an  effort  of  independent  thought  such  as  he  had  never 
known ;  and  he  must  have  made  the  effort  at  a  moment 
when  all  his  energies  were  turned  into  the  anguish  of  dis- 
appointed faith.  If  there  is  an  angel  who  records  the  sor- 
rows of  men  as  well  as  their  sins,  he  knows  how  many  and 
deep  are  the  sorrows  that  spring  from  false  ideas  for  which 
no  man  is  culpable. 

Marner  went  home,  and  for  a  whole  day  sat  alone, 
stunned  by  despair,  without  any  impulse  to  go  to  Sarah 
and  attempt  to  win  her  belief  in  his  innocence.  The  sec- 
ond day  he  took  refuge  from  benumbing  unbelief,  by  get- 
ting into  his  loom  and  working  away  as  usual  ;  and  before 
many  hours  were  past,  the  minister  and  one  of  the  dea- 
cons came  to  him  with  the  message  from  Sarah,  that  she 
held  her  engagement  to  him  at  an  end.  Silas  received  the 
message  mutely,  and  then  turned  away  from  the  messen- 
gers to  work  at  his  loom  again.  In  little  more  than  a 
month  from  that  time,  Sarah  was  married  to  William 
Dane ;  and  not  long  afterwards  it  was  known  to  the 
brethren  in  Lantern  Yard  that  Silas  Marner  had  departed 
from  the  town.1 

1  The  novelist  first  describes  the  scene  of  the  story,  then  introduces 
the  chief  character,  Silas  Marner,  as  seen  by  the  community,  and  con- 
cludes by  an  account  of  his  previous  history  and  an  explanation  of  his 
moral  condition  on  his  appearance  at  Raveloe.  Would  the  introduction 
to  the  story  be  less  effective,  if  the  betrayal  of  Silas  Marner  by  his 
friend  had  been  told  first  ?  Why  ?  What  are  the  chief  outlines  of 
Marner' s  character  as  developed  in  the  preliminary  chapter  ?  Good 
examples  of  George  Eliot's  methods  in  story-telling  may  be  found  in 
this  chapter :  the  descriptive  (pages  3-5,  6-1 1) ;  the  purely  narrative 
(pages  11-14  and  the  final  paragraph) ;  the  dramatic  (pages  14-16) ;  and 
the  analytical  or  reflective  (page  6,  and  especially  page  16,  beginning, 
"  To  people  accustomed,"  etc.). 


CHAPTER  II 

EVEN  people  whose  lives  have  been  made  various 1  by  learn- 
ing,  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  keep  a  fast  hold  on  their  ha- 
bitual views  of  life,  on  their  faith  in  the  Invisible,  nay,  on 
the  sense  that  their  past  joys  and  sorrows  are  a  real  expe- 
rience, when  they  are  suddenly  transported  to  a  new  land, 
where  the  beings  around  them  know  nothing  of  their  his- 
tory, and  share  none  of  their  ideas — where  their  mother 
earth  shows  another  lap,  and  human  life  has  other  forms 
than  those  on  which  their  souls  have  been  nourished. 
Mmdfthat  have  been  unhinged  from  their  old  faith  and 
love,  have  perhaps  sought  this  Lethean 2  influence  of  exile, 
in  which  the  past  becomes  dreamy  because  its  symbols  have 
all  vanished,  and  the  present  too  is  dreamy  because  it  is 
linked  with  no  memories.  But  even  their  experience  may 
hardly  enable  them  thoroughly  to  imagine  what  was  the 
effect  on  a  simple  weaver  like  Silas  Marner,  when  he  left  his 
own  country  and  people  and  came  to  settle  in  Eaveloe. 
Nothing  could  be  more  unlike  his  native  town,  set  within 
sight  of  the  widespread  hillsides,  than  this  low,  wooded 
region,  where  he  felt  hidden  even  from  the  heavens  by  the 
screening  trees  and  hedgerows.8  There  was  nothing  here, 
when  he  rose  in  the  deep  morning  quiet  and  looked  out  on 
the  dewy  brambles  and  rank  tufted  grass,  that  seemed  to 
have  any  relation  with  that  life  centring  in  Lantern  Yard, 
which  had  once  been  to  him  the  altar-place  of  high  dis- 

1  Given  various  interests,  diversified. 

2  The  waters  of  Lethe,  the  river  of  oblivion,  one  of  the  streams  of 
Hades,  caused  those  who  drank  of  it  to  forget  their  past  existence. 

3  In  England  the  fields  are  commonly  divided  from  each  other  and 
from  the  highways  by  rows  of  shrubs  or  trees,  often  of  great  age. 


SILAS  MARNER  19 

pensations.1  The  whitewashed  walls  ;2  the  little  pews  where 
well-known  figures  entered  with  a  subdued  rustling,  and 
where  first  one  well-known  voice  and  then  another,  pitched 
in  a  peculiar  key  of  petition,  uttered  phrases  at  once  oc- 
cult3 and  familiar,  like  the  amulet4  worn  on  the  heart; 
the  pulpit  where  the  minister  delivered  unquestioned  doc- 
trine, and  swayed  to  and  fro,  and  handled  the  book  in  a 
long-accustomed  manner ;  the  very  pauses  between  the 
couplets  of  the  hymn,  as  it  was  given  out,  and  the  recur- 
rent swell  of  voices  in  song  :  these  things  had  been  the 
channel  of  divine  influences  to  Marner — they  were  the 
fostering  home  of  his  religious  emotions — they  were  Chris- 
tianity and  God's  kingdom  upon  earth.  A  weaver  who 
finds  hard  words  in  his  hymn-book  knows  nothing  of  ab- 
stractions ;  as  the  little  child  knows  nothing  of  parental 
love,  but  only  knows  one  face  and  one  lap  towards  which  it 
stretches  its  arms  for  refuge  and  nurture. 

And  what  could  be  more  unlike  that  Lantern  Yard 
world  than  the  world  in  Raveloe  ? — orchards  looking  lazy 
with  neglected  plenty  ; 5  the  large  church  in  the  wide  church- 
yard, which  men  gazed  at  lounging  at  their  own  doors  in 
service-time;  the  purple-faced  farmers  jogging  along  the 
lanes  or  turning  in  at  the  Rainbow ;  homesteads,  where 
men  supped  heavily  and  slept  in  the  light  of  the  evening 

1  "  The  altar-place  of  high  dispensations,  "  i.e.,  the  source  of  author- 
ity in  his  religious  and  moral  life. 

2  This  sentence  contains  a  description  of  the  distinguishing  features 
of  worship  among  the  religious  bodies  outside  the  Established  Church, 
such  as  the  Methodists,  the  Baptists,   the  Presbyterians,  etc.     These 
sects  were  called  in  common  the  Non-conformist  churches  (because 
they  did  not  conform  to  the  Act  of  Uniformity  of  1662,   demanding 
"  assent  and  consent  "  to  everything  contained  in  the  Book  of  Common 
Prayer)  or  Dissenters. 

3  Hidden,  from  the  Latin  occultns,  "concealed." 

4  An  object  superstitiously  worn  as  a  remedy  for  disease,  witchcraft, 
bad  luck,  or  accidents.    Amulets  consist  of  certain  stones,  or  plants,  or 
bits  of  metal  or  parchment,  witli  or  without  mystic  characters. 

5  The  abundance  at  Raveloe  is  in  contrast  with  the  pinched  life  of 
the  manufacturing  town  from  which  Marner  had  come. 


20  SILAS  MARNER 

hearth,  and  where  women  seemed  to  be  laying  up  a  stock  of 
linen  for  the  life  to  come.  There  were  no  lips  in  Raveloe 
from  which  a  word  could  fall  that  would  stir  Silas  Marner's 
benumbed  faith  to  a  sense  of  pain.  In  the  early  ages  of 
the  world,  we  know,  it  was  believed  that  each  territory  was 
inhabited  and  ruled  by  its  own  divinities,1  so  that  a  man 
could  cross  the  bordering  heights  and  be  out  of  the  reach 
of  his  native  gods,  whose  presence  was  confined  to  the 
streams  and  the  groves  and  the  hills  among  which  he  had 
lived  from  his  birth.  And  poor  Silas  was  vaguely  con- 
scious of  something  not  unlike  the  feeling  of  primitive 
men,  when  they  fled  thus,  in  fear  or  in  sullenness,  from 
the  face  of  an  unpropitious  deity.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  Power  he  had  vainly  trusted  in  among  the  streets  and 
at  the  prayer-meetings,  was  very  far  away  from  this  land 
in  which  he  had  taken  refuge,  where  men  lived  in  careless 
abundance,  knowing  and  needing  nothing  of  that  trust, 
which,  for  him,  had  been  turned  to  bitterness.  The  little 
light  he  possessed  spread  its  beams  so  narrowly,  that  frus- 
trated belief  was  a  curtain  broad  enough  to  create  for  him 
the  blackness  of  night. 

His  first  movement  after  the  shock  had  been  to  work  in 
his  loom ; 2  and  he  went  on  with  this  unremittingly,  never 
asking  himself  why,  now  he  was  come  to  Raveloe,  he 
worked  far  on  into  the  night  to  finish  the  tale  3  of  Mrs.  Os- 
good's  table-linen  sooner  than  she  expected — without  con- 
templating beforehand  the  money  she  would  put  into  his 
hand  for  the  work.  He  seemed  to  weave,  like  the  spider, 
from  pure  impulse,  without  reflection.  Every  man's  work, 
pursued  steadily,  tends  in  this  way  to  become  an  end  in 
itself,  and  so  to  bridge  over  the  loveless  chasms  of  his  life. 
Silas's  hand  satisfied  itself  with  throwing  the  shuttle,  and 

1  The  territorial  gods  of  the  classical  mythology,  such  as  the 
Nymphs,  the  Dryads,  and  the  Naiads. 

3  For  a  description  of  the  old-fashioned  hand-loom  for  weaving  any 
fabric  from  wool,  see  the  Century  Dictionary. 

3  See  note  3,  page  9. 


SILAS  MARNER  21 

his  eye  with  seeing  the  little  squares  in  the  cloth  complete 
themselves  under  his  effort.  Then  there  were  the  calls  of 
hunger  ;  and  Silas,  in  his  solitude,  had  to  provide  his  own 
breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper,  to  fetch  his  own  water  from 
the  well,  and  put  his  own  kettle  on  the  fire  ;  and  all  these 
immediate  promptings  helped,  along  with  the  weaving,  to 
reduce  his  life  to  the  unquestioning  activity  of  a  spinning 
insect.  He  hated  the  thought  of  the  past ;  there  was 
nothing  that  called  out  his  love  and  fellowship  toward  the 
strangers  he  had  come  amongst ;  and  the  future  was  all 
dark,  for  there  was  no  Unseen  Love  that  cared  for  him. 
Thought  was  arrested  by  utter  bewilderment,  now  its  old 
narrow  pathway  was  closed,  and  affection  seemed  to  have 
died  under  the  bruise  that  had  fallen  on  its  keenest  nerves. 
But  at  last  Mrs.  Osgood's  table-linen  was  finished,  and 
Silas  was  paid  in  gold.  His  earnings  in  his  native  town, 
where  he  worked  for  a  wholesale  dealer,  had  been  after 1  a 
lower  rate  ;  he  had  been  paid  weekly,  and  of  his  weekly 
earnings  a  large  proportion  had  gone  to  objects  of  piety 
and  charity.  Now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  had 
five  bright  guineas  2  put  into  his  hand  ;  no  man  expected 
a  share  of  them,  and  he  loved  no  man  that  he  should  offer 
him  a  share.  But  what  were  the  guineas  to  him  who  saw 
no  vista  beyond  countless  days  of  weaving  ?  It  was  need- 
less for  him  to  ask  that,  for  it  was  pleasant  to  him  to  feel 
them  in  his  palm,  and  look  at  their  bright  faces,  which 
were  all  his  own  :  it  was  another  element  of  life,  like  the 
weaving  and  the  satisfaction  of  hunger,  subsisting  quite 
aloof  from  the  life  of  belief  and  love  from  which  he  had 
been  cut  off.  The  weaver's  hand  had  known  the  touch  of 
hard- won  money  even  before  the  palm  had  grown  to  its 
full  breadth  ;  for  twenty  years,  mysterious  money  had 

1  Colloquial  for  "according  to  or  at." 

8  English  gold  pieces  (so  called  because  coined  of  gold  brought  from 
Guinea  in  Africa)  of  the  value  of  twenty-one  shillings,  issued  from 
1663  to  1813.  Although  guineas  are  no  longer  issued,  the  term  is  still 
used  in  England  for  reckoning. 


22  SILAS  MARNER 

stood  to  him  as  the  symbol  of  earthly  good,  and  the  im- 
mediate object  of  toil.  He  had  seemed  to  love  it  little  in 
the  years  when  every  penny  had  its  purpose  for  him  ;  for 
he  loved  the  purpose  then.  But  now,  when  all  purpose 
was  gone,  that  habit  of  looking  towards  the  money  and 
grasping  it  with  a  sense  of  fulfilled  effort  made  a  loam  that 
was  deep  enough  for  the  seeds  of  desire  ;  and  as  Silas 
walked  homeward  across  the  fields  in  the  twilight,  he  drew 
out  the  money  and  thought  it  was  brighter  in  the  gather- 
ing gloom. 

About  this  time  an  incident  happened  which  seemed  to 
open  a  possibility  of  some  fellowship  with  his  neighbours. 
One  day,  taking  a  pair  of  shoes  to  be  mended,  he  saw  the 
cobbler's  wife  seated  by  the  fire,  suffering  from  the  terrible 
symptoms  of  heart-disease  and  dropsy,  which  he  had  wit- 
nessed as  the  precursors  of  his  mother's  death.  He  felt  a 
rush  of  pity  at  the  mingled  sight  and  remembrance,  and, 
recalling  the  relief  his  mother  had  found  from  a  simple 
preparation  of  foxglove,  he  promised  Sally  Gates  to  bring 
her  something  that  would  ease  her,  since  the  doctor  did 
her  no  good.  In  this  office  of  charity,  Silas  felt,  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  come  to  Eaveloe,  a  sense  of  unity 
between  his  past  and  present  life,  which  might  have  been 
the  beginning  of  his  rescue  from  the  insect-like  existence 
into  which  his  nature  had  shrunk.  But  Sally  Oates's 
disease  had  raised  her  into  a  personage  of  much  interest 
and  importance  among  the  neighbours,  and  the  fact  of  her 
having  found  relief  from  drinking  Silas  Marner's  "  stuff  " 
became  a  matter  of  general  discourse.  AVhen  Doctor 
Kimble  gave  physic,  it  was  natural  that  it  should  have  an 
effect ;  but  when  a  weaver,  who  came  from  nobody  knew 
where,  worked  wonders  with  a  bottle  of  brown  waters,  the 
occult  character  of  the  process  was  evident.  Such  a  sort 
of  thing  had  not  been  known  since  the  AVise  Woman  at 
Tarley  died  ;  and  she  had  charms  as  well  as  "  stuff  : " 
everybody  went  to  her  when  their  children  had  fits.  Silas 
Marner  must  be  a  person  of  the  same  sort,  for  how  did  he 


8ILA8  MARNER  23 

know  what  would  bring  back  Sally  Oates's  breath,  if  he 
didn't  know  a  fine  sight *  more  than  that  ?  The  Wise 
Woman  had  words  that  she  muttered  to  herself,  so  that 
you  couldn't  hear  what  they  were,  and  if  she  tied  a  bit  of 
red  thread  round  the  child's  toe  the  while,  it  would  keep 
off  the  water  in  the  head.  There  were  women  in  Kaveloe, 
at  that  present  time,  who  had  worn  one  of  the  Wise 
Woman's  little  bags  round  their  necks,  and,  in  consequence, 
had  never  had  an  idiot  child,  as  Ann  Coulter  had.  Silas 
Marner  could  very  likely  do  as  much,  and  more  ;  and  now  it 
was  all  clear  how  he  should  have  come  from  unknown  parts, 
and  be  so  "  comical-looking."  But  Sally  Gates  must  mind 
and  not  tell  the  doctor,  for  he  would  be  sure  to  set  his  face 
against  Marner  :  he  was  always  angry  about  the  Wise 
Woman,  and  used  to  threaten  those  who  went  to  her  that 
they  should  have  none  of  his  help  any  more. 

Silas  now  found  himself  and  his  cottage  suddenly  beset 
by  mothers  who  wanted  him  to  charm  away  the  hooping- 
cough,  or  bring  back  the  milk,  and  by  men  who  wanted 
stuff  against  the  rheumatics  or  the  knots  in  the  hands ; 
and,  to  secure  themselves  against  a  refusal,  the  applicants 
brought  silver 2  in  their  palms.  Silas  might  have  driven  a 
profitable  trade  in  charms  as  well  as  in  his  small  list  of 
drugs ;  but  money  on  this  condition  was  no  temptation  to 
him  :  he  had  never  known  an  impulse  towards  falsity,  and 
he  drove  one  after  another  away  with  growing  irritation, 
for  the  news  of  him  as  a  wise  man  had  spread  even  to 
Tarley,  and  it  was  long  before  people  ceased  to  take  long 
Avalks  for  the  sake  of  asking  his  aid.  But  the  hope  in  his 
wisdom  was  at  length  changed  into  dread,  for  no  one 
believed  him  when  he  said  he  knew  no  charms  and  could 
work  no  cures,  and  every  man  and  woman  who  had  an  ac- 
cident or  a  new  attack  after  applying  to  him,  set  the  mis- 
fortune down  to  Master  Maruer's  ill-will  and  irritated 

1  I.e.,  a  great  deal. 

0  The  customary  method  of  treating  with  people  who  are  supposed 
to  have  magic  powers,  e.g. ,  the  gypsies. 


24  SILAS  MARNER 

glances.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  his  movement  of  pity 
towards  Sally  Gates,  which  had  given  him  a  transient  sense 
of  brotherhood,  heightened  the  repulsion  between  him  and 
his  neighbours,  and  made  his  isolation  more  complete. 

Gradually  the  guineas,  the  crowns,1  and  the  half- 
crowns,  grew  to  a  heap,  and  Marner  drew  less  and  less  for 
his  own  wants,  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of  keeping  him- 
self strong  enough  to  work  sixteen  hours  a  day  on  as  small 
an  outlay  as  possible.  Have  not  men,  shut  up  in  solitary 
imprisonment,  found  an  interest  in  marking  the  moments 
by  straight  strokes  of  a  certain  length  on  the  wall,  until 
the  growth  of  the  sum  of  straight  strokes,  arranged,  in 
triangles,  has  become  a  mastering  purpose  ?  Do  we  not 
wile  away  moments  of  inanity  or  fatigued  waiting  by  re- 
peating some  trivial  movement  or  sound,  until  the  rep- 
etition has  bred  a  want,  which  is  incipient  habit  ?  That 
will  help  us  to  understand  how  the  love  of  accumulating 
money  grows  an  absorbing  passion  in  men  whose  imagina- 
tions, even  in  the  very  beginning  of  their  hoard,  showed 
them  no  purpose  beyond  it.  Marner  wanted  the  heaps  of 
ten  to  grow  into  a  square,  and  then  into  a  larger  square  ; 
and  every  added  guinea,  while  it  was  itself  a  satisfaction, 
bred  a  new  desire.  In  this  strange  world,  made  a  hopeless 
riddle  to  him,  he  might,  if  he  had  had  a  less  intense  nature, 
have  sat  weaving,  weaving — looking  towards  the  end  of  his 
pattern,  or  towards  the  end  of  his  web,  till  he  forgot  the 
riddle,  and  everything  else  but  his  immediate  sensations  ; 
but  the  money  had  come  to  mark  off  his  weaving  into 
periods,  and  the  money  not  only  grew,  but  it  remained 
with  him.  He  began  to  think  it  was  conscious  of  him,  as 
his  loom  was,  and  he  would  on  no  account  have  exchanged 
those  coins,  which  had  become  his  familiars,  for  other 
coins  with  unknown  faces.  He  handled  them,  he  counted 

1  Silver  coins  generally  bearing  a  crown  or  a  crowned  head  on  one 
side  ;  the  English  crown  is  worth  five  shillings,  or  $1.22;  hence  the 
half-crown  is  a  little  larger  than  the  two  shilling  piece,  and  worth 
sixpence  more. 


SILAS  MARNER  25 

them,  till  their  form  and  colour  were  like  the  satisfaction 
of  a  thirst  to  him ;  but  it  was  only  in  the  night,  when 
his  work  was  done,  that  he  drew  them  out  to  enjoy  their 
companionship.  He  had  taken  up  some  bricks  in  his  floor 
underneath  his  loom,  and  here  he  had  made  a  hole  in  which 
he  set  the  iron  pot  that  contained  his  guineas  and  silver 
coins,  covering  the  bricks  with  sand  whenever  he  replaced 
them.  Not  that  the  idea  of  being  robbed  presented  itself 
often  or  strongly  to  his  mind :  hoarding  was  common  in 
country  districts  in  those  days  ;  there  were  old  labourers  in 
the  parish  of  Raveloe  who  were  known  to  have  their  savings 
by  them,  probably  inside  their  flock-beds  ; 1  but  their  rustic 
neighbours,  though  not  all  of  them  as  honest  as  their  an- 
cestors in  the  days  of  King  Alfred,2  had  not  imaginations 
bold  enough  to  lay  a  plan  of  burglary.  How  could  they 
have  spent  the  money  in  their  own  village  without  betray- 
ing themselves  ?  They  would  be  obliged  to  "  run  away  " 
— a  course  as  dark  and  dubious  as  a  balloon  journey. 

So,  year  after  year,  Silas  Marner  had  lived  in  this  soli- 
tude, his  guineas  rising  in  the  iron  pot,  and  his  life  nar- 
rowing and  hardening  itself  more  and  more  into  a  mere 
pulsation  of  desire  and  satisfaction  that  had  no  relation  to 
any  other  being.  His  life  had  reduced  itself  to  the  func- 
tions of  weaving  and  hoarding,  without  any  contemplation 
of  an  end  towards  which  the  functions  tended.  The  same 
sort  of  process  has  perhaps  been  undergone  by  wiser  men, 
when  they  have  been  cut  off  from  faith  and  love — only, 
instead  of  a  loom  and  a  heap  of  guineas,  they  have  had 
some  erudite  research,  some  ingenious  project,  or  some 
well-knit  theory.  Strangely  Marner's  face  and  figure 
shrank  and  bent  themselves  into  a  constant  mechanical  re- 
lation to  the  objects  of  his  life,  so  that  he  produced  the 
same  sort  of  impression  as  a  handle  or  a  crooked  tube, 

1  Beds  filled  with  small  pieces  of  wool ;  from  the  Latin  floccus, 
"  wool." 

2  When  it  was  said  that  a  purse  of  money  might  lie  untouched  on 
the  highway 


26  SILAS  MARKER 

which  has  no  meaning  standing  apart.  The  prominent  eyes 
that  used  to  look  trusting  and  dreamy,  now  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  made  to  see  only  one  kind  of  thing  that  was 
very  small,  like  tiny  grain,  for  which  they  hunted  every- 
where :  and  he  was  so  withered  and  yellow,  that,  though 
he  was  not  yet  forty,  the  children  always  called  him  "  Old 
Master  Marner." 

Yet  even  in  this  stage  of  withering  a  little  incident  hap- 
pened, which  showed  that  the  sap  of  affection  was  not  all 
gone.  It  was  one  of  his  daily  tasks  to  fetch  his  water 
from  a  well  a  couple  of  fields  off,  and  for  this  purpose, 
ever  since  he  came  to  Raveloe,  he  had  had  a  brown  earth- 
enware pot,  which  he  held  as  his  most  precious  utensil 
among  the  very  few  conveniences  he  had  granted  himself. 
It  had  been  his  companion  for  twelve  years,  always  stand- 
ing on  the  same  spot,  always  lending  its  handle  to  him  in 
the  early  morning,  so  that  its  form  had  an  expression  for 
him  of  willing  helpfulness,  and  the  impress  of  its  handle 
on  his  palm  gave  a  satisfaction  mingled  with  that  of  hav- 
ing the  fresh  clear  water.  One  day  as  he  was  returning 
from  the  well,  he  stumbled  against  the  step  of  the  stile, 
and  his  brown  pot,  falling  with  force  against  the  stones 
that  overarched  the  ditch  below  him,  was  broken  in  three 
pieces.  Silas  picked  up  the  pieces  and  carried  them  home 
with  grief  in  his  heart.  The  brown  pot  could  never  be  of 
use  to  him  any  more,  but  he  stuck  the  bits  together  and 
propped  the  ruin  in  its  old  place  for  a  memorial. 

This  is  the  history  of  Silas  Marner,  until  the  fifteenth 
year  after  he  came  to  Eaveloe.  The  livelong  day  he  sat  in 
his  loom,  his  ear  filled  with  its  monotony,  his  eyes  bent 
close  down  on  the  slow  growth  of  sameness  in  the  brown- 
ish web,1  his  muscles  moving  with  such  even  repetition 
that  their  pause  seemed  almost  as  much  a  constraint  as 
the  holding  of  his  breath.  But  at  night  came  his  revelry  : 
at  night  he  closed  his  shutters,  and  made  fast  his  doors, 
and  drew  forth  his  gold.  Long  ago  the  heap  of  coins  had 
1  "  Brownish  web,"  i.e.,  of  the  spun-cloth  before  bleaching. 


SILAS  MARNER  27 

become  too  large  for  the  iron  pot  to  hold  them,  and  he 
had  made  for  them  two  thick  leather  bags,  which  wasted 
no  room  in  their  resting-place,  but  lent  themselves  flexibly 
to  every  corner.  How  the  guineas  shone  as  they  came  pour- 
ing out  of  the  dark  leather  mouths  !  The  silver  bore  no 
large  proportion  in  amount  to  the  gold,  because  the  long 
pieces  of  linen  which  formed  his  chief  work  were  always 
partly  paid  for  in  gold,  and  out  of  the  silver  he  supplied 
his  own  bodily  wants,  choosing  always  the  shillings  and 
sixpences  to  spend  in  this  way.  He  loved  the  guineas 
best,  but  he  would  not  change  the  silver — the  crowns  and 
half-crowns  that  were  his  own  earnings,  begotten  by  his 
labour  ;  he  loved  them  all.  He  spread  them  out  in  heaps 
and  bathed  his  hands  in  them  ;  then  he  counted  them  and 
set  them  up  in  regular  piles,  and  felt  their  rounded  out- 
line between  his  thumb  and  fingers,  and  thought  fondly  of 
the  guineas  that  were  only  half  earned  by  the  work  in  his 
loom,  as  if  they  had  been  unborn  children — thought  of  the 
guineas  that  were  coming  slowly  through  the  coming  years, 
through  all  his  life,  which  spread  far  away  before  him,  the 
end  quite  hidden  by  countless  days  of  weaving.  No  won- 
der his  thoughts  were  still  with  his  loom  and  his  money 
when  he  made  his  journeys  through  the  fields  and  the 
lanes  to  fetch  and  carry  home  his  work,  so  that  his  steps 
never  wandered  to  the  hedge-banks  and  the  lane-side  in 
search  erf  the  once  familiar  herbs :  these  too  belonged  to 
the  past,  from  which  his  life  had  shrunk  away,  like  a  riv- 
ulet that  has  sunk  far  down  from  the  grassy  fringe  of  its 
old  breadth  into  a  little  shivering  thread,  that  cuts  a 
groove  for  itself  in  the  barren  sand. 

But  about  the  Christmas  of  that  fifteenth  year,  a  second 
great  change  came  over  Marner's  life,  and  his  history  be- 
came blent  in  a  singular  manner  with  the  life  of  his  neigh- 
bours.1 

1  In  this  chapter  George  Eliot  develops  the  character  of  Silas  Mar« 
ner,  chiefly  by  description  and  analysis ;  note  especially  pages  18,  20, 
and  26. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  greatest  man  in  Raveloe  was  Squire  *  Cass,  who  lived 
in  the  large  red  house  with  the  handsome  flight  of  stone 
steps  in  front  and  the  high  stables  behind  it,  nearly  oppo- 
site the  church.  He  was  only  one  among  several  landed 
parishioners,2  but  he  alone  was  honoured  with  the  title  of 
Squire  ;  for  though  Mr.  Osgood's  family  was  also  under- 
stood to  be  of  timeless  origin — the  Eaveloe  imagination 
having  never  ventured  back  to  that  fearful  blank  when 
there  were  no  Osgoods — still,  he  merely  owned  the  farm  he 
occupied  ;  whereas  Squire  Cass  had  a  tenant  or  two,  who 
complained  of  the  game  to  him  quite  as  if  he  had  been  a 
lord. 

It  was  still  that  glorious  war-time  which  was  felt  to  be  a 
peculiar  favour  of  Providence  towards  the  landed  interest, 
and  the  fall  of  prices 3  had  not  yet  come  to  carry  the  race 
of  small  squires  and  yeomen 4  down  that  road  to  ruin  for 

1  From  esquire,  an  attendant  on  a  knight  ;  hence  a  person  not  noble 
who  has  received  a  grant  of  arms.     In  England  the  squire  is  generally 
a  justice  of  the  peace  and  the  owner  of  considerable  land, — a  person  of 
importance  in  the  neighborhood. 

2  "  Landed  parishioners,"  owners  of  land  in  the  parish,  in  Great 
Britain  a  small  district  nearly  equivalent  to  the  American  township. 
Originally  a  parish  was  an  ecclesiastical  district  under  the  charge  of  a 
single  pastor. 

3  At  the  close  of  the  foreign  war  prices  of  breadstuffs  in  England  de- 
clined because  the  home  markets  were  thrown  open  to  foreign  compe- 
tition ;  consequently  land  became  less  valuable. 

4  In  old  English  law,  a  yeoman  (more  properly  spelled  yoman)  was 
one  holding  free  land  of  the  value  of  forty  shillings  a  year,  who  was 
thereby  qualified  to  serve  on  juries,  etc.,  and  thus  distinguished  from 
a  serf  or  chattel.     In  recent  usage  a  yeoman  is  one  owning,  and  usu- 
ally cultivating,  a  small  farm, — roughly,  an  independent  farmer,  not  a 
tenant. 


SILAS  MARNER  29 

which  extravagant  habits  and  bad  husbandry  were  plenti- 
fully anointing  their  wheels.  I  am  speaking  now  in  rela- 
tion to  Eaveloe  and  the  parishes  that  resembled  it ;  for  our 
old-fashioned  country  life  had  many  different  aspects,  as 
all  life  must  have  when  it  is  spread  over  a  various  surface, 
and  breathed  on  variously  by  multitudinous  currents,  from 
the  winds  of  heaven  to  the  thoughts  of  men,  which  are  for 
ever  moving  and  crossing  each  other  with  incalculable  re- 
sults. Kaveloe  lay  low  among  the  bushy  trees  and  the  rut- 
ted lanes,  aloof  from  the  currents  of  industrial  energy  and 
Puritan  earnestness  r1  the  rich  ate  and  drank  freely,  ac- 
cepting gout  and  apoplexy  as  things  that  ran  mysteriously 
in  respectable  families,  and  the  poor  thought  that  the  rich 
were  entirely  in  the  right  of  it  to  lead  a  jolly  life  ;  besides, 
their  feasting  caused  a  multiplication  of  orts,2  which  were 
the  heirlooms  of  the  poor.  Betty  Jay  scented  the  boiling 
of  Squire  Cass's  hams,  but  her  longing  was  arrested  by  the 
unctuous  liquor  in  which  they  were  boiled  ;  and  when  the 
seasons  brought  round  the  great  merry-makings,  they  were 
regarded  on  all  hands  as  a  fine  thing  for  the  poor.  For  the 
Raveloe  feasts  were  like  the  rounds  of  beef  and  the  barrels 
of  ale — they  were  on  a  large  scale,  and  lasted  a  good  while, 
especially  in  the  winter-time.  After  ladies  had  packed  up 
their  best  gowns  and  top-knots  in  bandboxes,  and  had  in- 
curred the  risk  of  fording  streams  on  pillions  *  with  the 
precious  burden  in  rainy  or  snowy  weather,  when  there  was 
no  knowing  how  high  the  water  would  rise,  it  was  not  to 
be  supposed  that  they  looked  forward  to  a  brief  pleasure. 
On  this  ground  it  was  always  contrived  in  the  dark  seasons, 
when  there  was  little  work  to  be  done,  and  the  hours  were 
long,  that  several  neighbours  should  keep  open  house  in 
succession.  So  soon  as  Squire  Cass's  standing  dishes  di- 

1  Allusion  here  is  made  to  the  new  manufacturing  towns,  such  as 
Manchester  and  Birmingham,  then  coming  into  prominence. 

2  Scraps,  refuse  ;  used  by  Shakspere. 

3  Pads  or  cushions  placed  behind  the  saddle  of  a  horse  for  a  second 
person,  usually  a  woman. 


30  SILAS  MARNER 

minished  in  plenty  and  freshness,  his  gnests  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  walk  a  little  higher  up  the  village  to  Mr.  Os- 
good's,  at  the  Orchards,  and  they  found  hams  and  chines  l 
uncut,  pork-pies  with  the  scent  of  the  fire  in  them,  spun 
butter  in  all  its  freshness — everything,  in  fact,  that  appe- 
tites at  leisure  could  desire,  in  perhaps  greater  perfection, 
though  not  in  greater  abundance,  than  at  Squire  Cass's. 

For  the  Squire's  wife  had  died  long  ago,  and  the  Red 
House  was  without  that  presence  of  the  wife  and  mother 
which  is  the  fountain  of  wholesome  love  and  fear  in  parlour 
and  kitchen  ;  and  this  helped  to  account  not  only  for  there 
being  more  profusion  than  finished  excellence  in  the  holi- 
day provisions,  but  also  for  the  frequency  with  which  the 
proud  Squire  condescended  to  preside  in  the  parlour  of  the 
Rainbow  rather  than  under  the  shadow  of  his  own  dark 
wainscot ; 2  perhaps,  also,  for  the  fact  that  his  sons  had 
turned  out  rather  ill.  Raveloe  was  not  a  place  where  moral 
censure  was  severe,  but  it  was  thought  a  weakness  in  the 
Squire  that  he  had  kept  all  his  sons  at  home  in  idleness  ; 
and  though  some  licence  was  to  be  allowed  to  young  men 
whose  fathers  could  afford  it,  people  shook  their  heads  at 
the  courses  of  the  second  son,  Dunstan,  commonly  called 
Dunsey  Cass,  whose  taste  for  swopping  and  betting  might 
turn  out  to  be  a  sowing  of  something  worse  than  wild  oats. 
To  be  sure,  the  neighbours  said,  it  was  no  matter  what  be- 
came of  Dunsey — a  spiteful  jeering  fellow,  who  seemed  to 
enjoy  his  drink  the  more  when  other  people  went  dry — al- 
ways provided  that  his  doings  did  not  bring  trouble  on  a 
family  like  Squire  Cass's,  with  a  monument  in  the  church,3 
and  tankards4  older  than  King  George.5  But  it  would  be 
a  thousand  pities  if  Mr.  Godfrey,  the  eldest,  a  fine  open- 

1  Pieces  of  meat  from  the  backbones. 

*  A  wooden  lining  inside  of  rooms,  usually  made  in  panels  of  English 
oak,  which  grows  gradually  dark  with  age. 

3  Usually  one  or  more  such  memorials  to  dead  members  of  important 
families  may  be  found  in  an  English  church. 

4  Among  the  family  silver. 
» King  George  the  Third. 


SILAS  MARNER  31 

faced  good-natured  young  man  who  was  to  come  into  the 
land  some  day,  should  take  to  going  along  the  same  road 
with  his  brother,  as  he  had  seemed  to  do  of  late.  If  he 
went  on  in  that  way,  he  would  lose  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter  ; 
for  it  was  well  known  that  she  had  looked  very  shyly  on 
him  ever  since  last  Whitsuntide  twelvemonth,1  when  there 
was  so  much  talk  about  his  being  away  from  home  days  and 
days  together.  There  was  something  wrong,  more  than 
common — that  was  quite  clear  ;  for  Mr.  Godfrey  didn't  look 
half  so  fresh-coloured  and  open  as  he  used  to  do.  At  one 
time  everybody  was  saying,  What  a  handsome  couple  he 
and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter  would  make  !  and  if  she  could 
come  to  be  mistress  at  the  Ked  House,  there  would  be  a 
fine  change,  for  the  Lammeters  had  been  brought  up  in 
that  way,  that  they  never  suffered  a  pinch  of  salt  to  be 
wasted,  and  yet  everybody  in  their  household  had  of  the 
best,  according  to  his  place.  Such  a  daughter-in-law 
would  be  a  saving  to  the  old  Squire,  if  she  never  brought  a 
penny  to a  her  fortune ;  for  it  was  to  be  feared  that,  not- 
withstanding his  incomings,  there  were  more  holes  in  his 
pocket  than  the  one  where  he  put  his  own  hand  in.  But 
if  Mr.  Godfrey  didn't  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  he  might  say 
"  Good-bye  "  to  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter. 

It  was  the  once  hopeful  Godfrey  who  was  standing,  with 
his  hands  in  his  side-pockets  and  his  back  to  the  fire,  in 
the  dark  wainscoted  parlour,  one  late  November  afternoon 
in  that  fifteenth  year  of  Silas  Marner's  life  at  Raveloe. 
The  fading  grey  light  fell  dimly  on  the  walls  decorated 
with  guns,  whips,  and  foxes'  brushes,3  on  coats  and  hats 
flung  on  the  chairs,  on  tankards  sending  forth  a  scent  of 
flat 4  ale,  and  on  a  half -choked  fire,  with  pipes  propped  up 
in  the  chimney-corners  :  signs  of  a  domestic  life  destitute 
of  any  hallowing  charm,  with  which  the  look  of  gloomy 
vexation  on  Godfrey's  blond  face  was  in  sad  accordance. 
He  seemed  to  be  waiting  and  listening  for  some  one's  ap- 

1  A  year  ago  last  Whitsunday.  a  Colloquial  for  "  for." 

3  Tails.  «  Stale. 


32  SILAS  MARNER 

proach,  and  presently  the  sound  of  a  heavy  step,  with  an 
accompanying  whistle,  was  heard  across  the  large  empty 
entrance-hall. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  thick-set,  heavy-looking  young 
man  entered,  with  the  flushed  face  and  the  gratuitously 
elated  bearing  which  mark  the  first  stage  of  intoxication. 
It  was  Dunsey,  and  at  the  sight  of  him  Godfrey's  face 
parted  with  some  of  its  gloom  to  take  on  the  more  active 
expression  of  hatred.  The  handsome  brown  spaniel  that 
lay  on  the  hearth  retreated  under  the  chair  in  the  chim- 
ney-corner. 

"  Well,  Master  Godfrey,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 
said  Dunsey,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "  You're  my  elders  and 
betters,1  you  know  ;  I  was  obliged  to  come  when  you  sent 
for  me." 

"  Why,  this  is  what  I  want — and  just  shake  yourself  sober 
and  listen,  will  you  ?"  said  Godfrey,  savagely.  He  had 
himself  been  drinking  more  than  was  good  for  him,  trying 
to  turn  his  gloom  into  uncalculating  anger.  "  I  want  to 
tell  you,  I  must  hand  over  that  rent  of  Fowler's  to  the 
Squire,  or  else  tell  him  I  gave  it  you  ;  for  he's  threaten- 
ing to  distrain 2  for  it,  and  it'll  all  be  out  soon,  whether  I 
tell  him  or  not.  He  said,  just  now,  before  he  went  out, 
he  should  send  word  to  Cox  to  distrain,  if  Fowler  didn't 
come  and  pay  up  his  arrears 3  this  week.  The  Squire's 
short  o'  cash,  and  in  no  humour  to  stand  any  nonsense ; 
and  you  know  what  he  threatened,  if  ever  he  found  you 
making  away  with  his  money  again.  So,  see  and  get  the 
money,  and  pretty  quickly,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Dunsey,  sneeringly,  coming  nearer  to  his 
brother  and  looking  in  his  face.  "  Suppose,  now,  you  get 
the  money  yourself,  and  save  me  the  trouble,  eh  ?  Since 

1  ' '  Obey  my  elders  and  betters  ; "  from  the  Catechism  in  the  English 
Prayer  Book. 

*  A  legal  term  meaning  to  take  possession  of  property  in  order  to 
obtain  rent  due. 

3  Back  rent. 


SILAS  MARNER  33 

you  was  so  kind  as  to  hand  it  over  to  me,  you'll  not  refuse 
me  the  kindness  to  pay  it  back  for  me  :  it  was  your  broth- 
erly love  made  you  do  it,  you  know." 

Godfrey  bit  his  lips  and  clenched  his  fist.  ' '  Don't  come 
near  me  with  that  look,  else  I'll  knock  you  down." 

"  Oh  no,  you  won't,"  said  Dunsey,  turning  away  on  his 
heel,  however.  "  Because  I'm  such  a  good-natured  brother, 
you  know.  I  might  get  you  turned  out  of  house  and 
home,  and  cut  off  with  a  shilling  any  day.  I  might  tell 
the  Squire  how  his  handsome  son  was  married  to  that  nice 
young  woman,  Molly  Farren,  and  was  very  unhappy  be- 
cause he  couldn't  live  with  his  drunken  wife,  and  I  should 
slip  into  your  place  as  comfortable  as  could  be.  But  you 
see,  I  don't  do  it — I'm  so  easy  and  good-natured.  You'll 
take  any  trouble  for  me.  You'll  get  the  hundred  pounds 
for  me — I  know  you  will." 

"  How  can  I  get  the  money  ?  "  said  Godfrey,  quiver- 
ing. "I  haven't  a  shilling  to  bless  myself  with.  And 
it's  a  lie  that  you'd  slip  into  my  place  :  you'd  get  your- 
self turned  out  too,  that's  all.  For  if  you  begin  telling 
tales,  I'll  follow.  Bob's  my  father's  favourite  —  you 
know  that  very  well.  He'd  only  think  himself  well  rid  of 
you." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Dunsey,  nodding  his  head  sideways 
as  he  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  It  'ud1  be  very  pleas- 
ant to  me  to  go  in  your  company — you're  such  a  handsome 
brother,  and  we've  always  been  so  fond  of  quarrelling  with 
one  another,  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  without  you. 
But  you'd  like  better  for  us  both  to  stay  at  home  together ; 
I  know  you  would.  So  you'll  manage  to  get  that  little 
sum  o'  money,  and  I'll  bid  you  good-bye,  though  I'm  sorry 
to  part." 

Dunstan  was  moving  off,  but  Godfrey  rushed  after  him 
and  seized  him  by  the  arm,  saying,  with  an  oath — 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  no  money  :  I  can  get  no  money." 

"  Borrow  of  old  Kimble." 

» Would. 
8 


34  SILAS  MARNER 

"  I  tell  you,  he  won't  lend  me  any  more,  and  I  shan't 
ask  him." 

"  Well,  then,  sell  Wildfire." 

"  Yes,  that's  easy  talking.  I  must  have  the  money  di- 
rectly." 

"Well,  you've  only  got  to  ride  him  to  the  hunt1  to- 
morrow. There'll  be  Bryce  and  Keating  there,  for  sure. 
You'll  get  more  bids  than  one." 

"  I  daresay,  and  get  back  home  at  eight  o'clock, 
splashed  up  to  the  chin.  I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Osgood's  birth- 
day dance." 

"  Oho  ! "  said  Dunsey,  turning  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
trying  to  speak  in  a  small  mincing  treble.  "  And  there's 
sweet  Miss  Nancy  coming  ;  and  we  shall  dance  with  her, 
and  promise  never  to  be  naughty  again,  and  be  taken  into 
favour,  and " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  about  Miss  Nancy,  you  fool,"  said 
Godfrey,  turning  red,  "  else  I'll  throttle  you." 

"  What  for  ?  "  said  Dunsey,  still  in  an  artificial  tone, 
but  taking  a  whip  from  the  table  and  beating  the  butt-end 
of  it  on  his  palm.  "  You've  a  very  good  chance.  I'd  ad- 
vise you  to  creep  up  her  sleeve 2  again  :  it  'ud  be  saving 
time,  if  Molly  should  happen  to  take  a  drop  too  much  lau- 
danum some  day,  and  make  a  widower  of  you.  Miss 
Nancy  wouldn't  mind  being  a  second,  if  she  didn't  know 
it.  And  you've  got  a  good-natured  brother,  who'll  keep 
your  secret  well,  because  you'll  be  so  very  obliging  to 
him." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Godfrey,  quivering,  and 
pale  again,  "my  patience  is  pretty  near  at  an  end.  If 
you'd  a  little  more  sharpness  in  you,  you  might  know  that 
you  may  urge  a  man  a  bit  too  far,  and  make  one  leap  as 
easy  as  another.  I  don't  know  but  what  it  is  so  now  :  I 
may  as  well  tell  the  Squire  everything  myself — I  should 
get  you  off  my  back,  if  I  got  nothing  else.  And,  after 

1  The  fox-hunt,  the  favorite  sport  of  English  country  gentlemen. 
*  "  To  creep  up  her  sleeve,"  to  get  into  her  favor. 


SILAS  MAKNER  35 

all,  he'll  know  some  time.  She's  been  threatening  to  come 
herself  and  tell  him.  So,  don't  flatter  yourself  that  your 
secrecy's  worth  any  price  you  choose  to  ask.  You  drain 
me  of  money  till  I  have  got  nothing  to  pacify  her  with, 
and  she'll  do  as  she  threatens  some  day.  It's  all  one.  I'll 
tell  my  father  everything  myself,  and  you  may  go  to  the 
devil." 

Dunsey  perceived  that  he  had  overshot  his  mark,  and 
that  there  was  a  point  at  which  even  the  hesitating  God- 
frey might  be  driven  into  decision.  But  he  said,  with  an 
air  of  unconcern — 

"  As  you  please ;  but  I'll  have  a  draught  of  ale  first." 
And  ringing  the  bell,  he  threw  himself  across  two  chairs, 
and  began  to  rap  the  window-seat  with  the  handle  of  his 
whip. 

Godfrey  stood,  still  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  uneasily 
moving  his  fingers  among  the  contents  of  his  side-pockets, 
and  looking  at  the  floor.  That  big  muscular  frame  of  his 
held  plenty  of  animal  courage,  but  helped  him  to  no  de- 
cision when  the  dangers  to  be  braved  were  such  as  could 
neither  be  knocked  down  nor  throttled.  His  natural  ir- 
resolution and  moral  cowardice  were  exaggerated  by  a  po- 
sition in  which  dreaded  consequences  seemed  to  press 
equally  on  all  sides,  and  his  irritation  had  no  sooner  pro- 
voked him  to  defy  Dunstan  and  anticipate  all  possible  be- 
trayals, than  the  miseries  he  must  bring  on  himself  by 
such  a  step  seemed  more  unendurable  to  him  than  the 
present  evil.  The  results  of  confession  were  not  contin- 
gent,1 they  were  certain  ;  whereas  betrayal  was  not  cer- 
tain. From  the  near  vision  of  that  certainty  he  fell  back, 
on  suspense  and  vacillation  with  a  sense  of  repose.  The 
disinherited  son  of  a  small  squire,  equally  disinclined  to 
dig  and  to  beg,  was  almost  as  helpless  as  an  uprooted  tree, 
which,  by  the  favour  of  earth  and  sky,  has  grown  to  a 
handsome  bulk  on  the  spot  where  it  first  shot  upward. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  possible  to  think  of  digging 
1  Depending  on  an  uncertainty  ;  accidental  or  problematical. 


86  SILAS  MARNER 

with  some  cheerfulness  if  Nancy  Lammeter  were  to  be  won 
on  those  terms  ;  but,  since  he  must  irrevocably  lose  her  aa 
well  as  the  inheritance,  and  must  break  every  tie  but  the 
one  that  degraded  him  and  left  him  without  motive  for 
trying  to  recover  his  better  self,  he  could  imagine  no  fut- 
ure for  himself  on  the  other  side  of  confession  but  that  of 
"  'listing1  for  a  soldier" — the  most  desperate  step,  short 
of  suicide,  in  the  eyes  of  respectable  families.  No  !  he 
would  rather  trust  to  casualties  than  to  his  own  resolve — 
rather  go  on  sitting  at  the  feast,  and  sipping  the  wine  he 
loved,  though  with  the  sword  hanging  over  him  and  terror 
in  his  heart,  than  rush  away  into  the  cold  darkness  where 
there  was  no  pleasure  left.  The  utmost  concession  to 
Dunstan  about  the  horse  began  to  seem  easy,  compared 
with  the  fulfilment  of  his  own  threat.  But  his  pride 
would  not  let  him  recommence  the  conversation  other- 
wise than  by  continuing  the  quarrel.  Dunstan  was  wait- 
ing for  this,  and  took  his  ale  in  shorter  draughts  than 
usual. 

"  It's  just  like  you,"  Godfrey  burst  out,  in  a  bitter  tone, 
"  to  talk  about  my  selling  Wildfire  in  that  cool  way — the 
last  thing  I've  got  to  call  my  own,  and  the  best  bit  of 
horse-flesh  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  And  if  you'd  got  a 
spark  of  pride  in  you,  you'd  be  ashamed  to  see  the  stables 
emptied,  and  everybody  sneering  about  it.  But  it's  my 
belief  you'd  sell  yourself,  if  it  was  only  for  the  pleasure  of 
making  somebody  feel  he'd  got  a  bad  bargain." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  very  placably,  "you  do  me 
justice,  I  see.  You  know  I'm  a  jewel  for  'ticing  people 
into  bargains.  For  which  reason  I  advise  you  to  let  me 
sell  Wildfire.  I'd  ride  him  to  the  hunt  to-morrow  for  you, 
with  pleasure.  I  shouldn't  look  so  handsome  as  you  in  the 
saddle,  but  it's  the  horse  they'll  bid  for,  and  not  the  rider." 

"  Yes,  I  daresay — trust  my  horse  to  you  ! " 

" As  you  please,"  said  Dunstan,  rapping  the  window- 
seat  again  with  an  air  of  great  unconcern.  "  It  s  you  have 
1  Enlisting. 


SILAS  MARNER  37 

got  to  pay  Fowler's  money  ;  it's  none  of  my  business.  You 
received  the  money  from  him  when  you  went  to  Bramcote, 
and  you  told  the  Squire  it  wasn't  paid.  I'd  nothing  to  do 
with  that ;  you  chose  to  be  so  obliging  as  to  give  it  me, 
that  was  all.  If  you  don't  want  to  pay  the  money,  let  it 
alone  ;  it's  all  one  to  me.  But  I  was  willing  to  accommo- 
date you  by  undertaking  to  sell  the  horse,  seeing  it's  not 
convenient  to  you  to  go  so  far  to-morrow." 

Godfrey  v/as  silent  for  some  moments.  He  would  have 
liked  to  spring  on  Dunstan,  wrench  the  whip  from  his 
hand,  and  flog  him  to  within  an  inch  of  his  life  ;  and  no 
bodily  fear  could  have  deterred  him  ;  but  he  was  mastered 
by  another  sort  of  fear,  which  was  fed  by  feelings  stronger 
even  than  his  resentment.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was  in 
a  half -conciliatory  tone. 

"  Well,  you  mean  no  nonsense  about  the  horse,  eh  ? 
You'll  sell  him  all  fair,  and  hand"  over  the  money  ?  If  you 
don't,  you  know,  everything  'ull  go  to  smash,  for  I've  got 
nothing  else  to  trust  to.  And  you'll  have  less  pleasure  in 
pulling  the  house  over  my  head,  when  your  own  skull's  to 
be  broken  too." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Dunstan,  rising  ;  "  all  right.  I  thought 
you'd  come  round.  I'm  the  fellow  to  bring  old  Bryce  up 
to  the  scratch.  I'll  get  you  a  hundred  and  twenty1  for 
him,  if  I  get  you  a  penny." 

"  But  it'll  perhaps  rain  cats  and  dogs  to-morrow,  as  it 
did  yesterday,  and  then  you  can't  go,"  said  Godfrey,  hardly 
knowing  whether  he  wished  for  that  obstacle  or  not. 

"  Not  it,"  said  Dunstan.  ' '  I'm  always  lucky  in  my 
weather.  It  might  rain  if  you  wanted  to  go  yourself. 
You  never  hold  trumps,  you  know — I  always  do.  You've 
got  the  beauty,  you  see,  and  I've  got  the  luck,  so  you  must 
keep  me  by  you  for  your  crooked  sixpence  ; 2  you'll  ne-ver 
get  along  without  me." 

"  Confound  you,  hold  your  tongue  !  "  said  Godfrey,  im- 
petuously. "  And  take  care  to  keep  sober  to-morrow,  else 
1  Pounds ;  about  six  hundred  dollars.  a  Carried  for  luck. 


38  SILAS  MA.UNER 

you'll  get  pitched  on  your  head  coming  home,  and  Wild- 
fire might  be  the  worse  for  it." 

"  Make  your  tender  heart  easy/'  said  Dunstan,  opening 
the  door.  "  You  never  knew  me  see  double  when  I'd  got 
a  bargain  to  make  ;  it  'ud  spoil  the  fun.  Besides,  when- 
ever I  fall,  I'm  warranted  to  fall  on  my  legs." 

"With  that,  Dunstan  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
left  Godfrey  to  that  bitter  rumination  on  his  personal  cir- 
cumstances which  was  now  unbroken  from  day  to  day  save 
by  the  excitement  of  sporting,  drinking,  card-playing,  or 
the  rarer  and  less  oblivious  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Nancy 
Lammeter.  The  subtle  and  varied  pains  springing  from 
the  higher  sensibility  that  accompanies  higher  culture,  are 
perhaps  less  pitiable  than  that  dreary  absence  of  imper- 
sonal enjoyment  and  consolation  which  leaves  ruder  minds 
to  the  perpetual  urgent  companionship  of  their  own  griefs 
and  discontents.  The  lives  of  those  rural  forefathers, 
whom  we  are  apt  to  think  very  prosaic  figures — men  whose 
only  work  was  to  ride  round  their  land,  getting  heavier 
and  heavier  in  their  saddles,  and  who  passed  the  rest  of 
their  days  in  the  half-listless  gratification  of  senses  dulled 
by  monotony — had  a  certain  pathos  in  them  nevertheless. 
Calamities  came  to  them  too,  and  their  early  errors  carried 
hard  consequences  :  perhaps  the  love  of  some  sweet  maid- 
en, the  image  of  purity,  order,  and  calm,  had  opened 
their  eyes  to  the  vision  of  a  life  in  which  the  days  would 
not  seem  too  long,  even  without  rioting ;  but  the  maiden 
was  lost,  and  the  vision  passed  away,  and  then  what  was 
left  to  them,  especially  when  they  had  become  too  heavy 
for  the  hunt,  or  for  carrying  a  gun  over  the  furrows,  but 
to  drink  and  get  merry,  or  to  drink  and  get  angry,  so  that 
they  might  be  independent  of  variety,  and  say  over  again 
with  eager  emphasis  the  things  they  had  said  already  any 
time  that  twelvemonth  ?  Assuredly,  among  these  flushed 
and  dull-eyed  men  there  were  some  whom — thanks  to  their 
native  human  kindness — even  riot  could  never  drive  into 
brutality  ;  men  who,  when  their  cheeks  were  fresh,  had 


8ILA3  MARNER  39 

felt  the  keen  point  of  sorrow  or  remorse,  had  been  pierced 
by  the  reeds  they  leaned  on,  or  had  lightly  put  their  limbs 
in  fetters  from  which  no  struggle  could  loose  them  ;  and 
under  these  sad  circumstances,  common  to  us  all,  their 
thoughts  could  find  no  resting-place  outside  the  ever  trod- 
den round  of  their  own  petty  history. 

That,  at  least,  was  the  condition  of  Godfrey  Cass  in  this 
six-and-twentieth  year  of  his  life.  A  movement  of  com- 
punction, helped  by  those  small  indefinable  influences 
which  every  personal  relation  exerts  on  a  pliant  nature, 
had  urged  him  into  a  secret  marriage,  which  was  a  blight 
on  his  life.  It  was  an  ugly  story  of  low  passion,  delusion, 
and  waking  from  delusion,  which  needs  not  to  be  dragged 
from  the  privacy  of  Godfrey's  bitter  memory.  He  had 
long  known  that  the  delusion  was  partly  due  to  a  trap  laid 
for  him  by  Dunstan,  who  saw  in  his  brother's  degrading 
marriage  the  means  of  gratifying  at  once  his  jealous  hate 
and  his  cupidity.  And  if  Godfrey  could  have  felt  himself 
simply  a  victim,  the  iron  bit  that  destiny  had  put  into  his 
mouth  would  have  chafed  him  less  intolerably.  If  the 
curses  he  muttered  half  aloud  when  he  was  alone  had  had 
no  other  object  than  Dunstan's  diabolical  cunning,  he 
might  have  shrunk  less  from  the  consequences  of  avowal. 
But  he  had  something  else  to  curse — his  own  vicious  folly, 
which  now  seemed  as  mad  and  unaccountable  to  him  as 
almost  all  our  follies  and  vices  do  when  their  promptings 
have  long  passed  away.  For  four  years  he  had  thought  of 
Nancy  Lammeter,  and  wooed  her  with  tacit  patient  wor- 
ship, as  the  woman  who  made  him  think  of  the  future  with 
joy  :  she  would  be  his  wife,  and  would  make  home  lovely 
to  him,  as  his  father's  home  had  never  been  ;  and  it  would 
be  easy,  when  she  was  always  near,  to  shake  off  those  fool- 
ish habits  that  were  no  pleasures,  but  only  a  feverish  way 
of  annulling  vacancy.  Godfrey's  was  an  essentially  domes- 
tic nature,  bred  up  in  a  home  where  the  hearth  had  no 
smiles,  and  where  the  daily  habits  were  not  chastised  by 
th<?  presence  of  household  order.  His  easy  disposition 


40  SILAS  MARNER 

made  him  fall  in  unresistingly  with  the  family  courses,  but 
the  need  of  some  tender  permanent  affection,  the  longing 
for  some  influence  that  would  make  the  good  he  preferred 
easy  to  pursue,  caused  the  neatness,  purity,  and  liberal  or- 
derliness of  the  Lammeter  household,  sunned  by  the  smile 
of  Nancy,  to  seem  like  those  fresh  bright  hours  of  the 
morning  when  temptations  go  to  sleep  and  leave  the  ear 
open  to  the  voice  of  the  good  angel,  inviting  to  industry, 
sobriety,  and  peace.  And  yet  the  hope  of  this  paradise  had 
not  been  enough  to  save  him  from  a  course  which  shut 
him  out  of  it  for  ever.  Instead  of  keeping  fast  hold  of  the 
strong  silken  rope  by  which  Nancy  would  have  drawn  him 
safe  to  the  green  banks  where  it  was  easy  to  step  firmly, 
he  had  let  himself  be  dragged  back  into  mud  and  slime,  in 
which  it  was  useless  to  struggle.  He  had  made  ties  for 
himself  which  robbed  him  of  all  wholesome  motive  and 
were  a  constant  exasperation. 

Still,  there  was  one  position  worse  than  the  present :  it 
was  the  position  he  would  be  in  when  the  ugly  secret  was 
disclosed  ;  and  the  desire  that  continually  triumphed  over 
every  other  was  that  of  warding  off  the  evil  day,  when  he 
would  have  to  bear  the  consequences  of  his  father's  violent 
resentment  for  the  wound  inflicted  on  his  family  pride — 
would  have,  perhaps,  to  turn  his  back  on  that  hereditary 
ease  and  dignity  which,  after  all,  was  a  sort  of  reason  for 
living,  and  would  carry  with  him  the  certainty  that  he  was 
banished  for  ever  from  the  sight  and  esteem  of  Nancy  Lam- 
meter.  The  longer  the  interval,  the  more  chance  there 
was  of  deliverance  from  some,  at  least,  of  the  hateful  con- 
sequences to  which  he  had  sold  himself  ;  the  more  oppor- 
tunities remained  for  him  to  snatch  the  strange  gratification 
of  seeing  Nancy,  and  gathering  some  faint  indications  of 
her  lingering  regard.  Towards  this  gratification  he  was 
impelled,  fitfully,  every  now  and  then,  after  having  passed 
weeks  in  which  he  had  avoided  her  as  the  far-off  bright- 
winged  prize  that  only  made  him  spring  forward  and  find 
bis  chain  all  the  more  galling.  One  of  those  fits  of  yearn- 


SILAS  MARNER  41 

ing  was  on  him  now,  and  it  would  have  been  strong 
enough  to  have  persuaded  him  to  trust  Wildfire  to  Dun- 
stan  rather  than  disappoint  the  yearning,  even  if  he  had 
not  had  another  reason  for  his  disinclination  towards  the 
morrow's  hunt.  That  other  reason  was  the  fact  that  the 
morning's  meet  was  near  Batherley,  the  market-town 
where  the  unhappy  woman  lived,  whose  image  became 
more  odious  to  him  every  day ;  and  to  his  thought  the 
whole  vicinage 1  was  haunted  by  her.  The  yoke  a  man 
creates  for  himself  by  wrong-doing  will  breed  hate  in  the 
kindliest  nature ;  and  the  good-humoured,  affectionate- 
hearted  Godfrey  Cass  was  fast  becoming  a  bitter  man, 
visited  by  cruel  wishes,  that  seemed  to  enter,  and  depart, 
and  enter  again,  like  demons  who  had  found  in  him  a 
ready-garnished  home. 

What  was  he  to  do  this  evening  to  pass  the  time  ?  He 
might  as  well  go  to  the  Rainbow,  and  hear  the  talk  about 
the  cock-fighting  :  everybody  was  there,  and  what  else  was 
there  to  be  done  ?  Though,  for  his  own  part,  he  did  not 
care  a  button  for  cock-fighting.  Snuff,  the  brown  spaniel, 
who  had  placed  herself  in  front  of  him,  and  had  been 
watching  him  for  some  time,  now  jumped  up  in  impa- 
tience for  the  expected  caress.  But  Godfrey  thrust  her 
away  without  looking  at  her,  and  left  the  room,  followed 
humbly  by  the  unresenting  Snuff — perhaps  because  she 
saw  no  other  career  open  to  her.2 

1  A  rare  word,  meaning  "vicinity,"  "  neighborhood." 

2  In  the  first  part  of  this  chapter  the  dull  country  life  of  the  early 
years  of  the  century  is  described  in  some  detail ;  on  page  38  the  coun- 
try squire  who  lived  on  his  farms  during  the  year  is  cleverly  analyzed. 
Note  that  the  author  becomes  more  didactic  towards  the  close  of  the 
chapter.     What  aspect  of  Raveloe  life  is  brought  forward  here  ?     In 
this  chapter  new  characters  are  introduced,  and  the  plot  of  the  story  is 
begun.     What  distinctions  may  be  found  between  the  characters  of 
William  Dean  and  Dunstan  Cass  ? 


CHAPTER  IV 

CASS,  setting  off  in  the  raw  morning,  at  the 
judiciously  quiet  pace  of  a  man  who  is  obliged  to  ride  to 
cover  J  on  his  hunter,  had  to  take  his  way  along  the  lane 
which,  at  its  farther  extremity,  passed  by  the  piece  of  un- 
enclosed ground  called  the  Stone-pit,  where  stood  the  cot- 
tage, once  a  stone-cutter's  shed,  now  for  fifteen  years  in- 
habited by  Silas  Marner.  The  spot  looked  very  dreary  at 
this  season,  with  the  moist  trodden  clay  about  it,  and  the 
red,  muddy  water  high  up  in  the  deserted  quarry.  That 
was  Dunstan's  first  thought  as  he  approached  it ;  the  sec- 
ond was,  that  the  old  fool  of  a  weaver,  whose  loom  he 
heard  rattling  already,  had  a  great  deal  of  money  hidden 
somewhere.  How  was  it  that  he,  Dunstan  Cass,  who  had 
often  heard  talk  of  Marner's  miserliness,  had  never  thought 
of  suggesting  to  Godfrey  that  he  should  frighten  or  per- 
suade the  old  fellow  into  lending  the  money  on  the  excel- 
lent security  of  the  young  Squire's  prospects  ?  The  re- 
source occurred  to  him  now  as  so  easy  and  agreeable, 
especially  as  Marner's  hoard  was  likely  to  be  large  enough 
to  leave  Godfrey  a  handsome  surplus  beyond  his  immedi- 
ate needs,  and  enable  him  to  accommodate  his  faithful 
brother,  that  he  had  almost  turned  the  horse's  head  tow- 
ards home  again.  Godfrey  would  be  ready  enough  to  ac- 
cept the  suggestion  :  he  would  snatch  eagerly  at  a  plan 
that  might  save  him  from  parting  with  Wildfire.  But 
when  Dunstan's  meditation  reached  this  point,  the  incli- 
nation to  go  on  grew  strong  and  prevailed.  He  didn't  want 

1  The  place  where  the  fox-hunt  begins  ;  the  fox-holes  in  the  vicin- 
ity having  been  closed  the  night  before  the  hunt,  the  fox  is  found 
more  easily  in  a  temporary  retread,  or  "cover,"  in  the  underbrush. 


SILAS  MARNER  43 

to  give  Godfrey  that  pleasure  :  he  preferred  that  Master 
Godfrey  should  be  vexed.  Moreover,  Uunstan  enjoyed  the 
self-important  consciousness  of  having  a  horse  to  sell,  and 
the  opportunity  of  driving  a  bargain,  swaggering,  and  pos- 
sibly taking  somebody  in.  He  might  have  all  the  satisfac- 
tion attendant  on  selling  his  brother's  horse,  and  not  the 
less  have  the  further  satisfaction  of  setting  Godfrey  to  bor- 
row Marner's  money.  So  he  rode  on  to  cover. 

Bryce  and  Keating  were  there,  as  Dunstan  was  quite 
sure  they  would  be — he  was  such  a  lucky  fellow. 

"Heyday  !"  said  Bryce,  who  had  long  had  his  eye  on 
Wildfire,  "  you're  on  your  brother's  horse  to-day  :  how's 
that?" 

"  Oh,  I've  swopped  with  him,"  said  Dunstan,  whose  de- 
light in  lying,  grandly  independent  of  utility,  was  not  to 
be  diminished  by  the  likelihood  that  his  hearer  would  not 
believe  him — "  Wildfire's  mine  now." 

"  What !  has  he  swopped  with  you  for  that  big-boned 
hack  of  yours  ?  "  said  Bryce,  quite  aware  that  he  should 
get  another  lie  in  answer. 

"Oh,  there  was  a  little  account  between  us,"  said 
Dunsey,  carelessly,  "and  Wildfire  made  it  even,  I  ac- 
commodated him  by  taking  the  horse,  though  it  was 
against  my  will,  for  I'd  got  an  itch  for  a  mare  o'  Jortin's — 
as  rare  a  bit  o'  blood  as  ever  you  threw  your  leg  across. 
But  I  shall  keep  Wildfire,  now  I've  got  him,  though  I'd  a 
bid  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  for  him  the  other  day,  from  a  man 
over  at  Flitton — he's  buying  for  Lord  Cromleck — a  fellow 
with  a  cast1  in  his  eye,  and  a  green  waistcoat.  But  I 
mean  to  stick  to  Wildfire  :  I  shan't  get  a  better  at  a  fence 2 
in  a  hurry.  The  mare's  got  more  blood,  but  she's  a  bit  too 
weak  in  the  hind-quarters." 

Bryce  of  course  divined  that  Dunstan  wanted  to  sell  the 

horse,  and  Dunstan  knew  that  he  divined  it  (horse-dealing 

is  only  one  of  many  human  transactions  carried  on  in  this 

ingenious  manner) ;  and  they  both  considered   that  the 

1  Slight  squint.  2  At  taking  or  leaping  a  fence. 


44:  SILAS  MAENER 

bargain  was  in  its  first  stage,  when  Bryce  replied,  ironi- 
cally— 

"I  wonder  at  that  now;  I  wonder  you  mean  to  keep 
him ;  for  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who  didn't  want  to  sell 
his  horse  getting  a  bid  of  half  as  much  again  as  the  horse 
was  worth.  You'll  be  lucky  if  you  get  a  hundred." 

Keating  rode  up  now,  and  the  transaction  became  more 
complicated.  It  ended  in  the  purchase  of  the  horse  by 
Bryce  for  a  hundred  and  twenty,  to  be  paid  on  the  deliv- 
ery of  Wildfire,  safe  and  sound,  at  the  Batherley  stables. 
It  did  occur  to  Dunsey  that  it  might  be  wise  for  him 
to  give  up  the  day's  hunting,  proceed  at  once  to  Batherley, 
and,  having  waited  for  Bryce's  return,  hire  a  horse  to 
carry  him  home  with  the  money  in  his  pocket.  But  the 
inclination  for  a  run,1  encouraged  by  confidence  in  his 
luck,  and  by  a  draught  of  brandy  from  his  pocket-pistol 2 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  bargain,  was  not  easy  to  overcome, 
especially  with  a  horse  under  him  that  would  take  the 
fences  to  the  admiration  of  the  field.3  Dunstan,  however, 
took  one  fence  too  many,  and  got  his  horse  pierced  with 
a  hedge-stake.4  His  own  ill-favoured  person,  which  was 
quite  unmarketable,  escaped  without  injury ;  but  poor 
Wildfire,  unconscious  of  his  price,  turned  on  his  flank  and 
painfully  panted  his  last.  It  happened  that  Dunstan,  a 
short  time  before,  having  had  to  get  down  to  arrange  his 
stirrup,  had  muttered  a  good  many  curses  at  this  inter- 
ruption, which  had  thrown  him  in  the  rear  of  the  hunt 
near  the  moment  of  glory,  and  under  this  exasperation 
had  taken  the  fences  more  blindly.  He  would  soon  have 
been  up  with  the  hounds  again,  when  the  fatal  accident 
happened  ;  and  hence  he  was  between  eager  riders  in  ad- 

1  The  fox  chase  is  called  the  "  run." 

2  Small  pocket  flask. 

3  All  the  fox-hunters  ;  compare  the  use  of  the  word  in  horse-rac- 
ing. 

4  See  page  81.  Dunsey  had  takeii  "  a  hedge  with  stakes  in  it,  atop 
of  a  bank  with  a  ditch  before  it." 


STL  A3  MARNER  45 

vance,  not  troubling  themselves  about  what  happened  be- 
hind them,  and  far-off  stragglers,  who  were  as  likely  as 
not  to  pass  quite  aloof  from  the  line  of  road  in  which 
Wildfire  had  fallen.  Dunstan,  whose  nature  it  was  to  care 
more  for  immediate  annoyances  than  for  remote  conse- 
quences, no  sooner  recovered  his  legs,  and  saw  that  it  was 
all  over  with  Wildfire,  than  he  felt  a  satisfaction  at  the 
absence  of  witnesses  to  a  position  which  no  swagger- 
ing could  make  enviable.  Reinforcing  himself,  after 
his  shake,  with  a  little  brandy  and  much  swearing, 
he  walked  as  fast  as  he  could  to  a  coppice J  on  his 
right  hand,  through  which  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  could 
make  his  way  to  Batherley  without  danger  of  encounter- 
ing any  member  of  the  hunt.  His  first  intention  was  to 
hire  a  horse  there  and  ride  home  forthwith,  for  to  walk 
many  miles  without  a  gun  in  his  hand  and  along  an 
ordinary  road,  was  as  much  out  of  the  question  to  him  as 
to  other  spirited  young  men  of  his  kind.  He  did  not 
much  mind  about  taking  the  bad  news  to  Godfrey,  for  he 
had  to  offer  him  at  the  same  time  the  resource  of  Marner's 
money ;  and  if  Godfrey  kicked,  as  he  always  did,  at  the 
notion  of  making  a  fresh  debt  from  which  he  himself  got 
the  smallest  share  of  advantage,  why,  he  wouldn't  kick 
long  :  Dunstan  felt  sure  he  could  worry  Godfrey  into 
anything.  The  idea  of  Marner's  money  kept  growing  in 
vividness,  now  the  want  of  it  had  become  immediate  ;  the 
prospect  of  having  to  make  his  appearance  with  the  muddy 
boots  of  a  pedestrian  at  Batherley,  and  to  encounter  the 
grinning  queries  of  stablemen,  stood  unpleasantly  in  the  way 
of  his  impatience  to  be  back  at  Raveloe  and  carry  out  his 
felicitous  plan  ;  and  a  casual  visitation  of  his  waistcoat- 
pocket,  as  he  was  ruminating,  awakened  his  memory  to 
the  fact  that  the  two  or  three  small  coins  his  fore-finger 
encountered  there,  were  of  too  pale  a  colour  to  cover  that 
small  debt,  without  payment  of  which  the  stable-keeper 
had  declared  he  would  never  do  any  more  business  with 
1  Or  copse,  a  tliicket  of  underbrush. 


46  SILAS  MARNER 

Dunsey  Cass.  After  all,  according  to  the  direction  in 
which  the  run  had  brought  him,  he  was  not  so  very  much 
farther  from  home  than  he  was  from  Batherley  ;  but  Dun- 
sey, not  being  remarkable  for  clearness  of  head,  was  only  led 
to  this  conclusion  by  the  gradual  perception  that  there  Avere 
other  reasons  for  choosing  the  unprecedented  course  of 
walking  home.  It  was  now  nearly  four  o'clock,  and  a  mist 
was  gathering  :  the  sooner  he  got  into  the  road  the  better. 
He  remembered  having  crossed  the  road  and  seen  the 
finger-post  only  a  little  while  before  Wildfire  broke  down  ; 
so,  buttoning  his  coat,  twisting  the  lash  of  his  hunting- 
whip  compactly  round  the  handle,  and  rapping  the  tops  of 
his  boots  with  a  self-possessed  air,  as  if  to  assure  himself 
that  he  was  not  at  all  taken  by  surprise,  he  set  off  with  the 
sense  that  he  was  undertaking  a  remarkable  feat  of  bodily 
exertion,  which  somehow  and  at  some  time  he  should  be 
able  to  dress  up  and  magnify  to  the  admiration  of  a  select 
circle  at  the  Rainbow.  When  a  young  gentleman  like 
Dunsey  is  reduced  to  so  exceptional  a  mode  of  locomotion 
as  walking,  a  whip  in  his  hand  is  a  desirable  corrective  tc 
a  too  bewildering  dreamy  sense  of  unwontedness  in  his  po- 
sition ;  and  Dunstan,  as  he  went  along  through  the  gather- 
ing mist,  was  always  rapping  his  whip  somewhere.  It  was 
Godfrey's  whip,  which  he  had  chosen  to  take  without 
leave  because  it  had  a  gold  handle ;  of  course  no  one  could 
see,  when  Dunstan  held  it,  that  the  name  Godfrey  Cass 
was  cut  in  deep  letters  on  that  gold  handle — they  could 
only  see  that  it  was  a  very  handsome  whip.  Dunsey 
was  not  without  fear  that  he  might  meet  some  acquaint- 
ance in  whose  eyes  he  would  cut  a  pitiable  figure,  for 
mist  is  no  screen  when  people  get  close  to  each  other ; 
but  when  he  at  last  found  himself  in  the  well-known 
Eaveloe  lanes  without  having  met  a  soul,  he  silently  re- 
marked that  that  was  part  of  his  usual  good-luck.  But 
now  the  mist,  helped  by  the  evening  darkness,  was  more  of 
a  screen  than  he  desired,  for  it  hid  the  ruts  into  which  his 
feet  were  liable  to  slip — hid  everything,  so  that  he  had  to 


SILAS  MARKER  47 

guide  his  steps  by  dragging  bis  whip  along  the  low  bushes 
in  advance  of  the  hedgerow.  He  must  soon,  he  thought, 
be  getting  near  the  opening  at  the  Stone-pits  :  he  should 
find  it  out  by  the  break  in  the  hedgerow.  He  found  it  out, 
however,  by  another  circumstance  which  he  had  not  ex- 
pected— namely,  by  certain  gleams  of  light,  which  he  pres- 
ently guessed  to  proceed  from  Silas  Marner's  cottage. 
That  cottage  and  the  money  hidden  within  it  had  been  in 
his  mind  continually  during  his  walk,  and  he  had  been 
imagining  ways  of  cajoling  and  tempting  the  weaver  to  part 
with  the  immediate  possession  of  his  money  for  the  sake  of 
receiving  interest.  Dimstan  felt  as  if  there  must  be  a  lit- 
tle frightening  added  to  the  cajolery,  for  his  own  arithmet- 
ical convictions  were  not  clear  enough  to  afford  him  any 
forcible  demonstration  as  to  the  advantages  of  interest ; 
and  as  for  security,  he  regarded  it  vaguely  as  a  means  of 
cheating  a  man  by  making  him  believe  that  he  would  be 
paid.  Altogether,  the  operation  on  the  miser's  mind  was 
a  task  that  Godfrey  would  be  sure  to  hand  over  to  his  more 
daring  and  cunning  brother  :  Dunstan  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  that ;  and  by  the  time  he  saw  the  light  gleam- 
ing through  the  chinks  of  Marner's  shutters,  the  idea  of  a 
dialogue  with  the  weaver  had  become  so  familiar  to  him, 
that  it  occurred  to  him  as  quite  a  natural  thing  to  make 
the  acquaintance  forthwith.  There  might  be  several  con- 
veniences attending  this  course  :  the  weaver  had  possibly 
got  a  lantern,  and  Dunstan  was  tired  of  feeling  his  way. 
He  was  still  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from  home,  and 
the  lane  was  becoming  unpleasantly  slippery,  for  the  mist 
was  passing  into  rain.  He  turned  up  the  bank,  not  with- 
out some  fear  lest  he  might  miss  the  right  way,  since  he 
was  not  certain  whether  the  light  were  in  front  or  on  the 
side  of  the  cottage.  But  he  felt  the  ground  before  him 
cautiously  with  his  whip-handle,  and  at  last  arrived  safely 
at  the  door.  He  knocked  loudly,  rather  enjoying  the  idea 
that  the  old  fellow  would  be  frightened  at  the  sudden  noise. 
He  heard  no  movement  in  reply  :  all  was  silence  in  the  cot« 


48  SILAS  MARNER 

tage.  Was  the  weaver  gone  to  bed,  then  ?  If  so,  why  had 
he  left  a  light  ?  That  was  a  strange  forgetfulness  in  a 
miser.  Dunstan  knocked  still  more  loudly,  and,  without 
pausing  for  a  reply,  pushed  his  fingers  through  the  latch- 
hole,  intending  to  shake  the  door  and  pull  the  latch-string 
up  and  down,  not  doubting  that  the  door  was  fastened. 
But,  to  his  surprise,  at  this  double  motion  the  door  opened, 
and  he  found  himself  in  front  of  a  bright  fire  which  lit  up 
every  corner  of  the  cottage — the  bed,  the  loom,  the  three 
chairs,  and  the  table — and  showed  him  that  Marner  was 
not  there. 

Nothing  at  that  moment  could  be  much  more  in- 
viting to  Dunsey  than  the  bright  fire  on  the  brick 
hearth  :  he  walked  in  and  seated  himself  by  it  at  once. 
There  was  something  in  front  of  the  fire,  too,  that  would 
have  been  inviting  to  a  hungry  man,  if  it  had  been  in  a 
different  stage  of  cooking.  It  was  a  small  bit  of  pork 
suspended  from  the  kettle-hanger1  by  a  string  passed 
through  a  large  door-key,  in  a  way  known  to  primi- 
tive housekeepers  unpossessed  of  jacks.2  But  the  pork 
had  been  hung  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  hanger, 
apparently  to  prevent  the  roasting  from  proceeding  too 
rapidly  during  the  owner's  absence.  The  old  staring 
simpleton  had  hot  meat  for  his  supper,  then  ?  thought 
Dunstan.  People  had  always  said  he  lived  on  mouldy 
bread,  on  purpose  to  check  his  appetite.  But  where  could 
he  be  at  this  time,  and  on  such  an  evening,  leaving  his 
supper  in  this  stage  of  preparation,  and  his  door  unfast- 
ened ?  Dunstan's  own  recent  difficulty  in  making  his 
way  suggested  to  him  that  the  weaver  had  perhaps  gone 
outside  his  cottage  to  fetch  in  fuel,  or  for  some  such  brief 
purpose,  and  had  slipped  into  the  Stone-pit.  That  was  an 
interesting  idea  to  Dunstan,  carrying  consequences  of  en- 

1  A  crane  suspended  above  the  fireplace  for  the  purpose  of  hanging 
food  to  be  cooked. 

2  A  device  for  lifting  the  spit  and  thus  turning  the  roast  before  an 
open  fire. 


SILAS  MARNER  49 

tire  novelty.  If  the  weaver  was  dead,  who  had  a  right  to 
his  money  ?  Who  would  know  where  his  money  was  hid- 
den ?  Who  would  knoiv  that  anybody  had  come  to  take  it 
away  9  He  went  no  farther  into  the  subtleties  of  evidence  : 
the  pressing  question,  "Where  is  the  money  ?"  now  took 
such  entire  possession  of  him  as  to  make  him  quite  forget 
that  the  weaver's  death  was  not  a  certainty.  A  dull  mind, 
once  arriving  at  an  inference  that  flatters  a  desire,  is  rarely 
able  to  retain  the  impression  that  the  notion  from  which 
the  inference  started  was  purely  problematic.  And  Dun- 
stan's  mind  was  as  dull  as  the  mind  of  a  possible  felon 
usually  is.  There  were  only  three  hiding-places  where  he 
had  ever  heard  of  cottagers'  hoards  being  found  :  the 
thatch,1  the  bed,  and  a  hole  in  the  floor.  Marner's  cottage 
had  no  thatch ;  and  Dunstan's  first  act,  after  a  train  of 
thought  made  rapid  by  the  stimulus  of  cupidity,  was  to  go 
up  to  the  bed ;  but  while  he  did  so,  his  eyes  travelled 
eagerly  over  the  floor,  where  the  bricks,  distinct  in  the 
fire-light,  were  discernible  under  the  sprinkling  of  sand. 
But  not  everywhere  ;  for  there  was  one  spot,  and  one  only, 
which  was  quite  covered  with  sand,  and  sand  showing  the 
marks  of  fingers,  which  had  apparently  been  careful  to 
spread  it  over  a  given  space.  It  was  near  the  treddles 2  of 
the  loom.  In  an  instant  Dunstan  darted  to  that  spot, 
swept  away  the  sand  with  his  whip,  and,  inserting  the  thin 
end  of  the  hook  between  the  bricks,  found  that  they  were 
loose.  In  haste  he  lifted  up  two  bricks,  and  saw  what  he 
had  no  doubt  was  the  object  of  his  search ;  for  what  could 
there  be  but  money  in  those  two  leathern  bags  ?  And,  from 
their  weight,  they  must  be  filled  with  guineas.  Dunstan 
felt  round  the  hole,  to  be  certain  that  it  held  no  more ; 
then  hastily  replaced  the  bricks,  and  spread  the  sand  over 
them.  Hardly  more  than  five  minutes  had  passed  since 
he  entered  the  cottage,  but  it  seemed  to  Dunstan  like  a 
long  while  ;  and  though  he  was  without  any  distinct  rec- 

1  A  covering  for  the  roof  made  of  straw  or  rushes. 
"  Commonly  spelled  treadles. 
4 


50  SILAS  MABNER 

ognition  of  the  possibility  that  Marner  might  be  alive,  and 
might  re-enter  the  cottage  at  any  moment,  he  felt  an  un- 
definable  dread  laying  hold  on  him,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet 
Avith  the  bags  in  his  hand.  He  would  hasten  out  into  the 
darkness,  and  then  consider  what  he  should  do  with  the 
bags.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him  immediately,  that 
he  might  shut  in  the  stream  of  light  :  a  few  steps  would 
be  enough  to  carry  him  beyond  betrayal  by  the  gleams 
from  the  shutter-chinks  and  the  latch-hole.  The  rain  and 
darkness  had  got  thicker,  and  he  was  glad  of  it ;  though 
it  was  awkward  walking  with  both  hands  filled,  so  that  it 
was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  grasp  his  whip  along  with 
one  of  the  bags.  But  when  he  had  gone  a  yard  or  two,  he 
might  take  his  time.  So  he  stepped  forward  into  the 
darkness.1 

1  Although  there  is  less  analysis  and  more  description  in  this  chap- 
ter than  is  usual  with  George  Eliot,  yet  the  character  of  Dunsey  Cass, 
which  does  not  appear  again,  is  carefully  delineated.  Does  the  novel- 
ist introduce  any  new  elements  of  this  character  ?  How  does  this 
chapter  serve  to  involve  Marner  in  the  plot  ?  Note  how  carefully  the 
novelist  fits  together  the  chain  of  causes  and  events.  We  are  left  in 
doubt  at  the  close  of  the  chapter  about  Dunsey's  movements  after 
securing  the  money.  What  effect  does  this  produce  ? 


CHAPTER  V 

Dunstan  Cass  turned  his  back  on  the  cottage,  Silas 
Marner  was  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  away  from  it, 
plodding  along  from  the  village  with  a  sack  thrown  round 
his  shoulders  as  an  over-coat,  and  with  a  horn  lantern  1  in 
his  hand.  His  legs  were  weary,  but  his  mind  was  at  ease, 
free  from  the  presentiment  of  change.  The  sense  of  se- 
curity more  frequently  springs  from  habit  than  from  con- 
viction, and  for  this  reason  it  often  subsists  after  such  a 
change  in  the  conditions  as  might  have  been  expected  to 
suggest  alarm.2  The  lapse  of  time  during  which  a  given 
event  has  not  happened,  is,  in  this  logic  of  habit,  con- 
stantly alleged  as  a  reason  why  the  event  should  never 
happen,  even  when  the  lapse  of  time  is  precisely  the  added 
condition  which  makes  the  event  imminent.  A  man  will 
tell  you  that  he  has  worked  in  a  mine  for  forty  years  un- 
hurt by  an  accident  as  a  reason  why  he  should  apprehend 
no  danger,  though  the  roof  is  beginning  to  sink  ;  and  it  is 
often  observable,  that  the  older  a  man  gets,  the  more  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  him  to  retain  a  believing  conception  of  his  own 
death.  This  influence  of  habit  was  necessarily  strong  in  a 
man  whose  life  was  so  monotonous  as  Marner's — who  saw 
no  new  people  and  heard  of  no  new  events  to  keep  alive  in 
him  the  idea  of  the  unexpected  and  the  changeful ;  and  it 
explains  simply  enough,  why  his  mind  could  be  at  ease, 
though  he  had  left  his  house  and  his  treasure  more  de- 

1  Horn  scraped  thin  was  commonly  used  for  the  sides  of  a  lantern 
before  the  introduction  of  glass.  Until  recently  lantern  has  been 
spelled  lantJwrn,  from  the  popular  belief  that  the  last  syllable  was 
derived  from  horn. 

'2  Are  the  tenses  in  this  sentence  correctly  used? 


52  81LAS  MARNER 

fenceless  than  usual.  Silas  was  thinking  with  double 
complacency  of  his  supper :  first,  because  it  would  be  hot 
and  savoury ;  and  secondly,  because  it  would  cost  him 
nothing.  For  the  little  bit  of  pork  was  a  present  from 
that  excellent  housewife,  Miss  Priscilla  Lammeter,  to 
whom  he  had  this  day  carried  home  a  handsome  piece  of 
linen  ;  and  it  was  only  on  occasion  of  a  present  like  this, 
that  Silas  indulged  himself  with  roast-meat.  Supper  was 
his  favourite  meal,  because  it  came  at  his  time  of  revelry, 
when  his  heart  warmed  over  his  gold ;  whenever  he  had 
roast-meat,  he  always  chose  to  have  it  for  supper.  But 
this  evening,  he  had  no  sooner  ingeniously  knotted1  his 
string  fast  round  his  bit  of  pork,  twisted l  the  string  ac- 
cording to  rule  over  his  door-key,  passed  it  through  the 
handle,  and  made  it  fast  on  the  hanger,  than  he  remem- 
bered that  a  piece  of  very  fine  twine  was  indispensable  to 
his  "  setting  up  "  a  new  piece  of  work  in  his  loom  early  in 
the  morning.  It  had  slipped  his  memory,  because,  in 
coming  from  Mr.  Lammeter's,  he  had  not  had  to  pass 
through  the  village  ;  but  to  lose  time  by  going  on  errands 
in  the  morning  was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  a  nasty 
fog  to  turn  out  into,  but  there  were  things  Silas  loved 
better  than  his  own  comfort ;  so,  drawing  his  pork  to  the 
extremity  of  the  hanger,2  and  arming  himself  with  his  lan- 
tern and  his  old  sack,  he  set  out  on  what,  in  ordinary 
weather,  would  have  been  a  twenty  minutes'  errand.  He 
could  not  have  locked  his  door  without  undoing  his 
well-knotted  string  and  retarding  his  supper  ;  it  was  not 
worth  his  while  to  make  that  sacrifice.  What  thief  would 
find  his  way  to  the  Stone-pits  on  such  a  night  as  this  ? 
and  why  should  he  come  on  this  particular  night,  when 
he  had  never  come  through  all  the  fifteen  years  before  ? 
These  questions  were  not  distinctly  present  in  Silas's  mind ; 
they  merely  serve  to  represent  the  vaguely-felt  foundation 
of  his  freedom  from  anxiety. 

1  To  make  the  meat  revolve  and  thus  supply  the  place  of  jacks. 
8  In  order  that  it  might  cook  more  slowly. 


SILAS  MARNER  53 

He  reached  his  door  in  much  satisfaction  that  his  errand 
was  done  :  he  opened  it,  and  to  his  short  -  sighted  eyes 
everything  remained  as  he  had  left  it,  except  that  the  fire 
sent  out  a  welcome  increase  of  heat.  He  trod  about  the 
floor  while  putting  by  his  lantern  and  throwing  aside  his 
hat  and  sack,  so  as  to  1  merge  the  marks  of  Dunstan's  feet 
on  the  sand  in  the  marks  of  his  own  nailed  boots.  Then 
he  moved  his  pork  nearer  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  to  the 
agreeable  business  of  tending  the  meat  and  warming  him- 
self at  the  same  time. 

Any  one  who  had  looked  at  him  as  the  red  light  shone 
upon  his  pale  face,  strange  straining  eyes,  and  meagre 
form,  would  perhaps  have  understood  the  mixture  of  con- 
temptuous pity,  dread,  and  suspicion  with  which  he  was 
regarded  by  his  neighbours  in  Raveloe.  Yet  few  men 
could  be  more  harmless  than  poor  Marner.  In  his  truth- 
ful simple  soul,  not  even  the  growing  greed  and  worship 
of  gold  could  beget  any  vice  directly  injurious  to  others. 
The  light  of  his  faith  quite  put  out,  and  his  affections 
made  desolate,  he  had  clung  with  all  the  force  of  his  nat- 
ure to  his  work  and  his  money  ;  and  like  all  objects  to 
which  a  man  devotes  himself,  they  had  fashioned  him  into 
correspondence  with  themselves.  His  loom,  as  he  wrought 
in  it  without  ceasing,  had  in  its  turn  wrought  on  him,  and 
confirmed  more  and  more  the  monotonous  craving  for  its 
monotonous  response.  His  gold,  as  he  hung  over  it  and 
saw  it  grow,  gathered  his  power  of  loving  together  into  a 
hard  isolation  like  its  own. 

As  soon  as  he  was  warm  he  began  to  think  it  would  be 
a  long  while  to  wait  till  after  supper  before  he  drew  out 
his  guineas,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  them  on  the 
table  before  him  as  he  ate  his  unwonted  feast.  For  joy  is 
the  best  of  wine,  and  Silas's  guineas  were  a  golden  wine  of 
that  sort. 

He  rose  and  placed  his  candle  unsuspectingly  on  the 

'"So  as  to" — does  this  phrase  express  the  meaning  intended, 
would  "  in  such  a  way  as  to"  be  clearer  ? 


54:  SILAS  MARNER 

floor  near  his  loom,  swept  away  the  sand  without  noticing 
any  change,  and  removed  the  bricks.  The  sight  of  the 
empty  hole  made  his  heart  leap  violently,  but  the  belief 
that  his  gold  was  gone  could  not  come  at  once — only  ter- 
ror, and  the  eager  effort  to  put  an  end  to  the  terror.  He 
passed  his  trembling  hand  all  about  the  hole,  trying  to 
think  it  possible  that  his  eyes  had  deceived  him  ;  then  he 
held  the  candle  in  the  hole  and  examined  it  curiously, 
trembling  more  and  more.  At  last  he  shook  so  violently 
that  he  let  fall  the  candle,  and  lifted  his  hands  to  his 
head,  trying  to  steady  himself,  that  he  might  think.  Had 
he  put  his  gold  somewhere  else,  by  a  sudden  resolution  last 
night,  and  then  forgotten  it  ?  A  man  falling  into  dark 
waters  seeks  a  momentary  footing  even  on  sliding  stones  ; 
and  Silas,  by  acting  as  if  he  believed  in  false  hopes,  warded 
off  the  moment  of  despair.  He  searched  in  every  corner, 
he  turned  his  bed  over,  and  shook  it,  and  kneaded  it  ;  he 
looked  in  his  brick  oven  where  he  laid  his  sticks.  When 
there  was  no  other  place  to  be  searched,  he  kneeled  down 
again  and  felt  once  more  all  round  the  hole.  There  was 
no  untried  refuge  left  for  a  moment's  shelter  from  the  ter- 
rible truth. 

Yes,  there  was  a  sort  of  refuge  which  always  comes  with 
the  prostration  of  thought  under  an  overpowering  passion  : 
it  was  that  expectation  of  impossibilities,  that  belief  in  con- 
tradictory images,  which  is  still  distinct  from  madness,  be- 
cause it  is  capable  of  being  dissipated  by  the  external  fact. 
Silas  got  up  from  his  knees  trembling,  and  looked  round 
at  the  table  :  didn't  the  gold  lie  there  after  all  ?  The  ta- 
ble was  bare.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  behind  him — 
looked  all  round  his  dwelling,  seeming  to  strain  his  brown 
eyes  after  some  possible  appearance  of  the  bags  where  lie 
had  already  sought  them  in  vain.  He  could  see  every  ob- 
ject in  his  cottage — and  his  gold  was  not  there. 

Again  he  put  his  trembling  hands  to  his  head,  and  gave 
a  wild  ringing  scream,  the  cry  of  desolation.  For  a  few 
moments  after,  he  stood  motionless  ;  but  the  cry  had  re« 


SILAS  MARNER  55 

lieved  him  from  the  first  maddening  pressure  of  the  truth. 
He  turned,  and  tottered  towards  his  loom,  and  got  into  the 
seat  where  he  worked,  instinctively  seeking  this  as  the 
strongest  assurance  of  reality. 

And  now  that  all  the  false  hopes  had  vanished,  and  the 
first  shock  of  certainty  was  past,  the  idea  of  a  thief  began 
to  present  itself,  and  he  entertained  it  eagerly,  because  a 
thief  might  be  caught  and  made  to  restore  the  gold.  The 
thought  brought  some  new  strength  with  it,  and  he  started 
from  his  loom  to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it  the  rain  beat 
in  upon  him,  for  it  was  falling  more  and  more  heavily. 
There  were  no  footsteps  to  be  tracked  on  such  a  night — 
footsteps  ?  When  had  the  thief  come  ?  During  Silas's 
absence  in  the  daytime  the  door  had  been  locked,  and  there 
had  been  no  marks  of  any  inroad  on  his  return  by  day- 
light. And  in  the  evening,  too,  he  said  to  himself,  every- 
thing was  the  same  as  when  he  had  left  it.  The  sand  and 
bricks  looked  as  if  they  had  not  been  moved.  Was  it  a 
thief  who  had  taken  the  bags  ?  or  was  it  a  cruel  power  that 
no  hands  could  reach  which  had  delighted  in  making  him 
a  second  time  desolate  ?  He  shrank  from  this  vaguer 
dread,  and  fixed  his  mind  with  struggling  effort  on  the 
robber  with  hands,  who  could  be  reached  by  hands.  His 
thoughts  glanced  at  all  the  neighbours  who  had  made  any 
remarks,  or  asked  any  questions  which  he  might  now  re- 
gard as  a  ground  of  suspicion.  There  was  Jem  Rodney,  a 
known  poacher,  and  otherwise  disreputable  :  he  had  often 
met  Marner  in  his  journeys  across  the  fields,  and  had  said 
something  jestingly  about  the  weaver's  money  ;  nay,  he 
had  once  irritated  Marner,  by  lingering  at  the  fire  when  he 
called  to  light  his  pipe,  instead  of  going  about  his  busi- 
ness. Jem  Rodney  was  the  man — there  was  ease  in  the 
thought.  Jem  could  be  found  and  made  to  restore  the 
money  :  Marner  did  not  want  to  punish  him,  but  only  to 
get  back  his  gold  which  had  gone  from  him,  and  left 
his  soul  like  a  forlorn  traveller  on  an  unknown  desert. 
The  robber  must  be  laid  hold  of.  Marner's  ideas  of  legal 


56  BILA8  MARNER 

authority  were  confused,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  go  and 
proclaim  his  loss ;  and  the  great  people  in  the  village — the 
clergyman,  the  constable,  and  Squire  Cass — would  make 
Jem  Eodney,  or  somebody  else,  deliver  up  the  stolen 
money.  He  rushed  out  in  the  rain,  under  the  stimulus  of 
this  hope,  forgetting  to  cover  his  head,  not  caring  to  fasten 
his  door  ;  for  he  felt  as  if  he  had  nothing  left  to  lose.  He 
ran  swiftly,  till  want  of  breath  compelled  him  to  slacken 
his  pace  as  he  was  entering  the  village  at  the  turning  close 
to  the  Rainbow. 

The  Eainbow,  in  Marner's  view,  was  a  place  of  luxurious 
resort  for  rich  and  stout  husbands,  whose  wives  had  super- 
fluous stores  of  linen  ;  it  was  the  place  where  he  was  likely 
to  find  the  powers  and  dignities  of  Raveloe,  and  where  he 
could  most  speedily  make  his  loss  public.  He  lifted  the 
latch,  and  turned  into  the  bright  bar  or  kitchen  on  the 
right  hand,  where  the  less  lofty  customers  of  the  house 
were  in  the  habit  of  assembling,  the  parlour  on  the  left 
being  reserved  for  the  more  select  society  in  which  Squire 
Cass  frequently  enjoyed  the  double  pleasure  of  conviviality 
and  condescension.  But  the  parlour  was  dark  to-night, 
the  chief  personages  who  ornamented  its  circle  being  all  at 
Mrs.  Osgood's  birthday  dance,  as  Godfrey  Cass  was.  And 
in  consequence  of  this,  the  party  on  the  high-screened 
seats  in  the  kitchen  was  more  numerous  than  usual  ;  sev- 
eral personages,  who  would  otherwise  have  been  admitted 
into  the  parlour  and  enlarged  the  opportunity  of  hector- 
ing and  condescension  for  their  betters,  being  content  this 
evening  to  vary  their  enjoyment  by  taking  their  spirits- 
and-water  where  they  could  themselves  hector  and  conde- 
scend in  company  that  called  for  beer.1 

1  In  this  chapter  the  reader  gains  a  nearer  view  of  the  habits  of  the 
lonely  miser.  Note  that  the  author  treats  Silas  Marner  sympathetically 
even  under  the  sordid  aspects  of  a  miser,  and  by  a  fine  touch  shows 
how  this  second  great  loss  in  his  life  is  related  to  the  first  one  in  Lan- 
tern Yard.  What  contrast  is  suggested  by  the  concluding  paragraph  ? 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  conversation,  which,  was  at  a  high  pitch  of  animation 
when  Silas  approached  the  door  of  the  Rainbow,  had,  as 
usual,  been  slow  and  intermittent  when  the  company  first 
assembled.  The  pipes  began  to  be  puffed  in  a  silence 
which  had  an  air  of  severity ;  the  more  important  cus- 
tomers, who  drank  spirits  and  sat  nearest  the  fire,  staring 
at  each  other  as  if  a  bet  were  depending  on  the  first  man 
who  winked  ;  while  the  beer-drinkers,  chiefly  men  in  fus- 
tian1 jackets  and  smock-frocks,2  kept  their  eyelids  down 
and  rubbed  their  hands  across  their  mouths,  as  if  their 
draughts  of  beer  were  a  funeral  duty  attended  with  em- 
barrassing sadness.  At  last,  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord,  a 
man  of  a  neutral  disposition,  accustomed  to  stand  aloof 
from  human  differences  as  those  of  beings  who  were  all 
alike  in  need  of  liquor,  broke  silence,  by  saying  in  a  doubt- 
ful tone  to  his  cousin  the  butcher — 

"  Some  folks  'ud3  say  that  was  a  fine  beast  you  druv  in 
yesterday,  Bob  ?  " 

The  butcher,  a  jolly,  smiling,  red-haired  man,  was  not 
disposed  to  answer  rashly.  He  gave  a  few  puffs  before  he 
spat  and  replied,  "And  they  wouldn't  be  fur  wrong, 
John." 

After  this  feeble  delusive  thaw,  the  silence  set  in  as 
severely  as  before. 

"Was  it  a  red  Durham?"  said  the  farrier,4  taking  up 
the  thread  of  discourse  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes. 

1  A  thick  cotton  cloth. 

2  A  coarse  blouse  worn  over  a  laborer's  coat. 

3  For  dialect  forms  see  the  note  at  the  close  of  the  chapter. 

*  A  veterinary  surgeon  ;  this  word  has  an  interesting  derivation. 


58  SILAS  MARNER 

The  farrier  looked  at  the  landlord,  and  the  landlord 
looked  at  the  butcher,  as  the  person  who  must  take  the 
responsibility  of  answering. 

"Red  it  was,"  said  the  butcher,  in  his  good-humoured 
husky  treble — "and  a  Durham  it  was." 

"  Then  you  needn't  tell  me  who  you  bought  it  of,"  said 
the  farrier,  looking  round  with  some  triumph  ;  "  I  know 
who  it  is  has  got  the  red  Durhams  o'  this  country-side. 
And  she'd  a  white  star  on  her  brow,  I'll  bet  a  penny  ?  " 
The  farrier  leaned  forward  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  as 
he  put  this  question,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  knowingly. 

"  "Well ;  yes — she  might,"  said  the  butcher,  slowly,  con- 
sidering that  he  was  giving  a  decided  affirmative.  "  I 
don't  say  contrairy." 

"  I  knew  that  very  well,"  said  the  farrier,  throwing  him- 
self backward  again,  and  speaking  defiantly;  "if /don't 
know  Mr.  Lammeter's  cows,  I  should  like  to  know  who 
does — that's  all.  And  as  for  the  cow  you've  bought,  bar- 
gain or  no  bargain,  I've  been  at  the  drenching 1  of  her — 
contradick  me  who  will." 

The  farrier  looked  fierce,  and  the  mild  butcher's  conver- 
sational spirit  was  roused  a  little. 

"  I'm  not  for  contradicking  no  man,"  he  said  ;  "  I'm 
for  peace  and  quietness.  Some  are  for  cutting  long  ribs 
— I'm  for  cutting  'em  short  myself ;  but  /  don't  quarrel 
with  'em.  All  I  say  is,  it's  a  lovely  carkiss — and  anybody 
as  was  reasonable,  it  'ud  bring  tears  into  their  eyes  to  look 
at  it." 

"  Well,  it's  the  cow  as  I  drenched,  whatever  it  is,"  pur- 
sued the  farrier,  angrily  ;  "  and  it  was  Mr.  Lammeter's 
cow,  else  you  told  a  lie  when  you  said  it  was  a  red  Dur- 
ham." 

"  1  tell  no  lies,"  said  the  butcher,  with  the  same  mild 

huskiness  as  before,  "and  I  contradick  none — not  if  a  man 

was  to  swear  himself  black  :  he's  no  meat  o'  mine,  nor 

none  o'  my  bargains.     All  I  say  is,  it's  a  lovely  carkiss. 

1  I.e.,  had  given  her  med'oine. 


SILAS  MARNER  59 

And  what  I  say  I'll  stick  to ;  but  I'll  quarrel  wi'  no 
man." 

"No/'  said  the  farrier,  with  bitter  sarcasm,  looking  at 
the  company  generally;  "and  p'rhaps  you  arn't  pig- 
headed ;  and  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say  the  cow  was  a  red  Dur- 
ham ;  and  p'rhaps  you  didn't  say  she'd  got  a  star  on  her 
brow — stick  to  that,  now  you're  at  it." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord  ;  "  let  the  cow  alone. 
The  truth  lies  atween  you  :  you're  both  right  and  both 
wrong,  as  I  allays  say.  And  as  for  the  cow's  being  Mr. 
Lam  meter's,  I  say  nothing  to  that ;  but  this  I  say,  as  the 
llain bow's  the  Rainbow.  And  for  the  matter  o'  that,  if 
the  talk  is  to  be  o'  the  Lammeters,  you  know  the  most 
upo'  that  head,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  You  remember  when 
first  Mr.  Lammeter's  father  come  into  these  parts,  and 
took  the  Warrens  ?  " 

Mr.  Macey,  tailor  and  parish  -  clerk,  the  latter  of 
which  functions  rheumatism  had  of  late  obliged  him 
to  share  with  a  small  -  featured  young  man  who  sat 
opposite  him,  held  his  white  head  on  one  side,  and  twirled 
his  thumbs  with  an  air  of  complacency,  slightly  seasoned 
with  criticism.  He  smiled  pityingly,  in  answer  to  the 
landlord's  appeal,  and  said — 

"Ay,  ay ;  I  know,  I  know ;  but  I  let  other  folks  talk. 
I've  laid  by  now,  and  gev  up  to  the  young  uns.  Ask  them 
as  have  been  to  school  at  Tarley  :  they've  learnt  pernounc- 
ing  ;  that's  come  up  since  my  day." 

"  If  you're  pointing  at  me,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  the  deputy- 
clerk,  with  an  air  of  anxious  propriety,  "  I'm  nowise  a  man 
to  speak  out  of  my  place.  As  the  psalm  says — 

'  I  know  what's  right,  nor  only  so, 
But  also  practise  what  I  know.'  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  wish  you'd  keep  hold  o'  the  tune,  when 
it's  set  for  you  ;  if  you're  for  practising,  I  wish  you'd  prac- 
tise  that,"  said  a  large  jocose-looking  man,  an  excellent 
wheelwright  in  his  week-day  capacity,  but  on  Sundays 


60  SILAS  MARKER 

leader  of  the  choir.  He  winked,  as  he  spoke,  at  two  of  the 
company,  who  were  known  officially  as  the  "  bassoon  "* 
and  the  "  key-bugle, " 1  in  the  confidence  that  he  was  ex- 
pressing the  sense  of  the  musical  profession  in  Raveloe. 

Mr.  Tookey,  the  deputy-clerk,  who  shared  the  unpopu- 
larity common  to  deputies,  turned  very  red,  but  replied, 
with  careful  moderation — "  Mr.  Winthrop,  if  you'll  bring 
me  any  proof  as  I'm  in  the  wrong,  I'm  not  the  man  to  say 
I  won't  alter.  But  there's  people  set  up  their  own  ears  for 
a  standard,  and  expect  the  whole  choir  to  follow  'em. 
There  may  be  two  opinions,  I  hope." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  who  felt  very  well  satisfied 
with  this  attack  on  youthful  presumption  ;  "  you're  right 
there,  Tookey  :  there's  allays  two  'pinions ;  there's  the 
'pinion  a  man  has  of  himsen,  and  there's  the  'pinion  other 
folks  have  on  him.  There'd  be  two  'pinions  about  a 
cracked  bell,  if  the  bell  could  hear  itself." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Macey,"  said  poor  Tookey,  serious  amidst 
the  general  laughter,  "  I  undertook  to  partially  fill  up  the 
office  of  parish-clerk  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp's  desire,  when- 
ever your  infirmities  should  make  you  unfitting ;  and  its 
one  of  the  rights  thereof  to  sing  in  the  choir — else  why 
have  you  done  the  same  yourself  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  but  the  old  gentleman  and  you  are  two  folks," 
said  Ben  Winthrop.  "  The  old  gentleman's  got  a  gift. 
Why,  the  Squire  used  to  invite  him  to  take  a  glass,  only  to 
hear  him  sing  the  *  Red  Eovier  ; '  didn't  he,  Mr.  Macey  ? 
It's  a  nat'ral  gift.  There's  my  little  lad  Aaron,  he's  got  a 
gift — he  can  sing  a  tune  off  straight,  like  a  throstle.2  But 
as  for  you,  Master  Tookey,  you'd  better  stick  to  your 
'  Amens ' :  your  voice  is  well  enough  when  you  keep  it  up 
in  your  nose.  It's  your  inside  as  isn't  right  made  for  mu- 
sic :  it's  no  better  nor3  a  hollow  stalk." 

This  kind  of  unflinching  frankness  was  the  most  piquant 

1  It  must  be  remembered  that  these  were  not  the  days  of  the  small 
organ. 

2 A  thrush.  3  A  dialectical  idiom  for  "better  than." 


SILAS  MARNER  61 

form  of  joke  to  the  company  at  the  Rainbow,  and  Ben 
Winthrop's  insult  was  felt  by  everybody  to  have  capped 
Mr.  Macey's  epigram. 

"  I  see  what  it  is  plain  enough/'  said  Mr.  Tookey,  un- 
able to  keep  cool  any  longer.  "  There's  a  consperacy  to 
turn  me  out  o'  the  choir,  as  I  shouldn't  share  the  Christ- 
mas money — that's  where  it  is.  But  I  shall  speak  to  Mr. 
Crackenthorp  ;  I'll  not  be  put  upon  by  no  man." 

"Nay,  nay,  Tookey,"  said  Ben  Winthrop.  "We'll  pay 
you  your  share  to  keep  out  of  it — that's  what  we'll  do. 
There's  things  folks  'ud  pay  to  be  rid  on,  besides  var- 
min." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  landlord,  who  felt  that  paying 
people  for  their  absence  was  a  principle  dangerous  to  so- 
ciety;  "a  joke's  a  joke.  We're  all  good  friends  here,  I 
hope.  We  must  give  and  take.  You're  both  right  and 
you're  both  wrong,  as  I  say.  I  agree  wi'  Mr.  Macey  here, 
as  there's  two  opinions ;  and  if  mine  was  asked,  I  should 
say  they're  both  right.  Tookey's  right  and  Winthrop's 
right,  and  they've  only  got  to  split  the  difference  and  make 
themselves  even." 

The  farrier  was  puffing  his  pipe  rather  fiercely,  in  some 
contempt  at  this  trivial  discussion.  He  had  no  ear  for 
music  himself,  and  never  went  to  church,  as  being  of  the 
medical  profession,  and  likely  to  be  in  requisition  for  deli- 
cate cows.  But  the  butcher,  having  music  in  his  soul,  had 
listened  Avith  a  divided  desire  for  Tookey's  defeat  and  for 
the  preservation  of  the  peace. 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  said,  following  up  the  landlord's  con- 
ciliatory view,  "  we're  fond  of  our  old  clerk  ;  it's  nat'ral,  and 
him  used  to  be  such  a  singer,  and  got  a  brother  as  is  known 
for  the  first  fiddler  in  this  country-side.  Eh,  it's  a  pity 
but  what  Solomon  lived  in  our  village,  and  could  give  us  a 
tune  when  we  liked  ;  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?  I'd  keep  him  in  liver 
and  lights1  for  nothing — that  I  would." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  the  height  of  complacency  : 
1  The  lungs  of  a  beast. 


62  SILAS  MARNER 

"  our  family's  been  known  for  nmsicianers  as  far  back  aa 
anybody  can  tell.  But  them  things  are  dying  out,  as  I  tell 
Solomon  every  time  he  comes  round  ;  there's  no  voices  like 
what  there  used  to  be,  and  there's  nobody  remembers  what 
we  remember,  if  it  isn't  the  old  crows." 

"Ay,  you  remember  when  first  Mr.  Lammeter's  father 
come  into  these  parts,  don't  you,  Mr.  Macey  ? "  said  the 
landlord. 

"  I  should  think  I  did,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had  now 
gone  through  that  complimentary  process  necessary  to  bring 
him  up  to  the  point  of  narration  ;  "  and  a  fine  old  gentle- 
man he  was — as  fine,  and  finer  nor  the  Mr.  Lammeter  as 
now  is.  He  came  from  a  bit  north'ard,  so  far  as  I  could 
ever  make  out.  But  there's  nobody  rightly  knows  about 
those  parts  :  only  it  couldn't  be  far  north'ard,  nor  much 
different  from  this  country,  for  he  brought  a  fine  breed  o' 
sheep  with  him,  so  there  must  be  pastures  there,  and  every- 
thing reasonable.  We  beared  tell  as  he'd  sold  his  own  land 
to  come  and  take  the  Warrens,  and  that  seemed  odd  for  a 
man  as  had  land  of  his  own,  to  come  and  rent  a  farm  in  a 
strange  place.  But  they  said  it  was  along  of  his  wife's 
dying ;  though  there's  reasons  in  things  as  nobody  knows 
on — that's  pretty  much  what  I've  made  out ;  yet  some  folks 
are  so  wise,  they'll  find  you  fifty  reasons  straight  off,  and 
all  the  while  the  real  reason's  winking  at  'em  in  the  corner, 
and  they  niver  see't.  Howsomever,  it  was  soon  seen  as 
we'd  got  a  new  parish'ner  as  know'd  the  rights  and  customs 
o'  things,  and  kep  a  good  house,  and  was  well  looked  on  by 
everybody.  And  the  young  man — that's  the  Mr.  Lam- 
meter  as  now  is,  for  he'd  niver  a  sister — soon  begun  to 
court  Miss  Osgood,  that's  the  sister  o'  the  Mr.  Osgood  as 
now  is,  and  a  fine  handsome  lass  she  was — eh,  you  can't 
think — they  pretend  this  young  lass  is  like  her,  but  that's 
the  way  wi'  people  as  don't  know  what  come  before  'em.  7 
should  know,  for  I  helped  the  old  rector,  Mr.  Drumlow  as 
was,  I  helped  him  marry  'em." 

Here  Mr.  Macey  paused  ;  he  always  gave  his  narrative  in 


SILAS  MARNER  63 

Instalments,  expecting  to  be  questioned  according  to  pre« 
cedent. 

"  Ay,  and  a  partic'lar  thing  happened,  didn't  it,  Mr. 
Macey,  so  as  you  were  likely  to  remember  that  marriage  ?  " 
said  the  landlord,  in  a  congratulatory  tone. 

"  I  should  think  there  did — a  very  partic'lar  thing," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  sideways.  "  For  Mr.  Drumlow 
— poor  old  gentleman,  I  was  fond  on  him,  though  he'd  got 
a  bit  confused  in  his  head,  what  wi'  age  and  wi'  taking  a 
drop  o'  summat  warm  when  the  service  come  of  a  cold 
morning.  And  young  Mr.  Lammeter  he'd  have  no  way 
but  he  must  be  married  in  Janiwary,  which,  to  be  sure,  's 
a  unreasonable  time  to  be  married  in,  for  it  isn't  like  a 
christening  or  a  burying,  as  you  can't  help  ;  and  so  Mr. 
Drumlow — poor  old  gentleman,  I  was  fond  on  him — but 
when  he  come  to  put  the  questions,  he  put  'em  by  the 
rule  o'  contrairy,  like,  and  he  says,  ( "Wilt  thou  have  this 
man  to  thy  wedded  wife  ?'  says  he,  and  then  he  says, 
'  Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy  wedded  husband  ? ' 
says  he.  But  the  partic'larest  thing  of  all  is,  as  nobody 
took  any  notice  on  it  but  me,  and  they  answered  straight 
off  •'  yes/  like  as  if  it  had  been  me  saying  '  Amen  *  i'  the 
right  place,  without  listening  to  what  went  before." 

"  But  you  knew  what  was  going  on  well  enough,  didn't 
you,  Mr.  Macey  ?  You  were  live  enough,  eh  ?  "  said  the 
butcher. 

"  Lor  bless  you  !  "  said  Mr.  Macey,  pausing,  and  smiling 
in  pity  at  the  impotence  of  his  hearer's  imagination — 
"  why,  I  was  all  of  a  tremble  :  it  was  as  if  I'd  been  a  coat 
pulled  by  the  two  tails,  like  ;  for  I  couldn't  stop  the 
parson,  I  couldn't  take  upon  me  to  do  that ;  and  yet  I  said 
to  myself,  I  says,  '  Suppose  they  shouldn't  be  fast  married, 
'cause  the  words  are  contrairy  ? '  and  my  head  went  work- 
ing like  a  mill,  for  I  was  allays  uncommon  for  turning 
things  over  and  seeing  all  round  'em ;  and  I  says  to  my- 
selt,  '  Is't  the  meanin'  or  the  words  as  makes  folks  fast  r* 
wedlock  ? '  For  the  parson  meant  right,  and  the  bride 


64:  SILAS  MARNER 

and  bridegroom  meant  right.  But  then,  when  I  come  to 
think  on  it,  meanin'  goes  but  a  little  way  i'  most  things, 
for  you  may  mean  to  stick  things  together  and  your  glue 
may  be  bad,  and  then  where  are  you  ?  And  so  I  says  to 
mysen,  '  It  isn't  the  meanin',  it's  the  glue.'  And  I  was 
worreted  as  if  I'd  got  three  bells  to  pull  at  once,1  when 
we  went  into  the  vestry,  and  they  begun  to  sign  their 
names.  But  where's  the  use  o'  talking  ? — you  can't  think 
what  goes  on  in  a  'cute  man's  inside." 

"  But  you  held  in  for  all  that,  didn't  you,  Mr.  Macey  ?" 
said  the  landlord. 

"  Ay,  I  held  in  tight  till  I  was  by  mysen  wi'  Mr.  Drum- 
low,  and  then  I  out  wi'  everything,  but  respectful,  as  I 
allays  did.  And  he  made  light  on  it,  and  he  says,  '  Pooh, 
pooh,  Macey,  make  yourself  easy,'  he  says  ;  '  it's  neither 
the  meaning  nor  the  words — it's  the  regester  does  it — 
that's  the  glue.'  So  you  see  he  settled  it  easy  ;  for  parsons 
and  doctors  know  everything  by  heart,  like,  so  as  they 
aren't  worreted  wi'  thinking  what's  the  rights  and  wrongs 
o'  things,  as  I'n  been  many  and  many's  the  time.  And 
sure  enough  the  wedding  turned  out  all  right,  on'y  poor 
Mrs.  Lammeter — that's  Miss  Osgood  as  was — died  afore  the 
lasses  was  growed  up  ;  but  for  prosperity  and  everything 
respectable,  there's  no  family  more  looked  on.'* 

Every  one  of  Mr.  Macey's  audience  had  heard  this  story 
many  times,  but  it  was  listened  to  as  if  it  had  been  a 
favourite  tune,  and  at  certain  points  the  puffing  of  the 
pipes  was  momentarily  suspended,  that  the  listeners 
might  give  their  whole  minds  to  the  expected  words.  But 
there  was  more  to  come  ;  and  Mr.  Snell,  the  landlord, 
duly  put  the  leading  question. 

"  Why,  old  Mr.  Lammeter  had  a  pretty  fortin,  didn't 
they  say,  when  he  come  into  these  parts  ?  " 

"•Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Macey;  "but  I  daresay  it's  as 
much  as  this  Mr.  Lammeter's  done  to  keep  it  whole.  For 
there  was  allays  a  talk  as  nobody  could,  get  rich  on  the 

1  I.e.,  in  ringing  the  cliimes. 


SILAS  MARNER  65 

Warrens  :  though  he  holds  it  cheap,  for  it's  what  they 
,call  Charity  Land." 

"Ay,  and  there's  few  folks  know  so  well  as  you  how  it 
come  to  be  Charity  Lund,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ? "  said  the 
butcher. 

"How  should  they?"  said  the  old  clerk,  with  some 
contempt.  "Why,  my  grandfather  made  the  groom's 
livery  for  that  Mr.  Cliff  as  came  and  built  the  big  stables 
at  the  Warrens.  Why,  they're  stables  four  times  as  big 
as  Squire  Cass's,  for  he  thought  o'  nothing  but  hosses  and 
hunting,  Cliff  didn't — a  Lunnon  tailor,  some  folks  said,  as 
had  gone  mad  wi'  cheating.  For  he  couldn't  ride  ;  lor 
bless  you  !  they  said  he'd  got  no  more  grip  o'  the  hoss  than 
if  his  legs  had  been  cross-sticks :  my  grandfather  heared 
old  Squire  Cass  say  so  many  and  many  a  time.  But  ride  he 
would  as  if  Old  Harry  had  been  a-driving  him  ;  and  he'd  a 
son,  a  lad  o'  sixteen  ;  and  nothing  would  his  father  have 
him  do,  but  he  must  ride  and  ride — though  the  lad  was 
frighted,  they  said.  And  it  was  a  common  saying  as 
the  father  wanted  to  ride  the  tailor  out  o'  the  lad,  and 
make  a  gentleman  on  him — not  but  what  I'm  a  tailor  my- 
self, but  in  respect  as  God  made  me  such,  I'm  proud  on  it, 
for  '  Macey,  tailor,'  's  been  wrote  up  over  our  door  since 
afore  the  Queen's  heads  went  out  on  the  shillings.1  But 
Cliff,  he  was  ashamed  o'  being  called  a  tailor,  and  he  was 
sore  vexed  as  his  riding  was  laughed  at,  and  nobody  o'  the 
gentlefolks  hereabout  could  abide  him.  Howsomever,  the 
poor  lad  got  sickly  and  died,  and  the  father  didn't  live  long 
after  him,  for  he  got  queerer  nor  ever,  and  they  said  he 
used  to  go  out  i'  the  dead  o'  the  night,  wi'  a  lantern  in  his 
hand,  to  the  stables,  and  set  a  lot  o'  lights  burning,  for  he 
got  as  he  couldn't  sleep ;  and  there  he'd  stand,  cracking 
his  whip  and  looking  at  his  hosses ;  and  they  said  it  was  a 
mercy  as  the  stables  didn't  get  burnt  down  wi'  the  poor 
dumb  creaturs  in  'em.  But  at  last  he  died  raving,  and 
they  found  as  he'd  left  all  his  property,  Warrens  and  all,  to 

1  Queen  Anne's  shillings  (1702-1714). 
5 


66  SILAS  MARNER 

a  Lunnon  Charity,  and  that's  how  the  Warrens  come  to  be 
Charity  Land  ;  though,  as  for  the  stables,  Mr.  Lammeter 
never  uses  'em — they're  out  o'  all  charicter — lor  bless  you  ! 
if  you  was  to  set  the  doors  a-banging  in  'em,  it  'ud  sound 
like  thunder  half  o'er  the  parish." 

"  Ay,  but  there's  more  going  on  in  the  stables  than  what 
folks  see  by  daylight,  eh,  Mr.  Macey  ?"  said  the  landlord. 

"Ay,  ay  ;  go  that  way  of  a  dark  night,  that's  all,"  said 
Mr.  Macey,  winking  mysteriously,  "and  then  make  be- 
lieve, if  you  like,  as  you  didn't  see  lights  i'  the  stables,  nor 
hear  the  stamping  o'  the  bosses,  nor  the  cracking  o'  the 
whips,  and  howling,  too,  if  it's  tow'rt  daybreak.  '  Cliff's 
Holiday '  has  been  the  name  of  it  ever  sin'  I  were  a  boy  ; 
that's  to  say,  some  said  as  it  was  the  holiday  Old  Harry 
gev  him  from  roasting,  like.  That's  what  my  father  told 
me,  and  he  was  a  reasonable  man,  though  there's  folks 
nowadays  know  what  happened  afore  they  were  bom  better 
nor  they  know  their  own  business." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that,  eh,  Dowlas  ?"  said  the  land- 
lord, turning  to  the  farrier,  who  was  swelling  with  impa- 
tience for  his  cue.  "  There's  a  nut  for  you  to  crack." 

Mr.  Dowlas  was  the  negative  spirit  in  the  company,  and 
was  proud  of  his  position. 

"  Say  ?  I  say  what  a  man  should  say  as  doesn't  shut  his 
eyes  to  look  at  a  finger-post.  I  say,  as  I'm  ready  to  wager 
any  man  ten  pound,  if  he'll  stand  out  wi'  me  any  dry  night 
in  the  pasture  before  the  Warren  stables,  as  we  shall 
neither  see  lights  nor  hear  noises,  if  it  isn't  the  blowing  of 
our  own  noses.  That's  what  I  say,  and  I've  said  it  many  a 
time  ;  but  there's  nobody  'ull  ventur  a  ten-pun'  note  *  on 
their  ghos'es  as  they  make  so  sure  of." 

"Why,  Dowlas,  that's  easy  betting,  that  is,"  said  Ben 
Winthrop.  "  You  might  as  well  bet  a  man  as  he  wouldn't 
catch  the  rheumatise  if  he  stood  up  to's  neck  in  the  pool 
of  a  frosty  night.  It  'ud  be  fine  fun  for  a  man  to  win  hia 
bet  as  he'd  catch  the  rheumatise.  Folks  as  believe  in 
1  A  ten-pound  note  is  equivalent  to  a  fifty  dollar  bill. 


SILAS  MARNER  61 

Cliff's  Holiday  aren't  agoing  to  ventur  near  it  for  a  matter 
o'  ten  pound." 

' '  If  Master  Dowlas  wants  to  know  the  truth  on  it,"  said 
Mr.  Macey,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  tapping  his  thumbs  to- 
gether, "  he's  no  call  to  lay  any  bet — let  him  go  and  stanj 
by  himself — there's  nobody  'ull  hinder  him ;  and  then  he 
can  let  the  parish'ners  know  if  they're  wrong." 

"  Thank  you  !  I'm  obliged  to  you/'  said  the  farrier, 
with  a  snort  of  scorn.  "If  folks  are  fools,  it's  no  business 
o'  mine.  /  don't  want  to  make  out  the  truth  about 
ghos'es  :  I  know  it  a'ready.  But  I'm  not  against  a  bet — 
everything  fair  and  open.  Let  any  man  bet  me  ten  pound 
as  I  shall  see  Cliff's  Holiday,  and  I'll  go  and  stand  by  my- 
self. I  want  no  company.  I'd  as  lief  do  it  as  I'd  fill  this 
pipe." 

"  Ah,  but  who's  to  watch  you,  Dowlas,  and  see  you  do 
it  ?  That's  no  fair  bet,"  said  the  butcher. 

"  No  fair  bet  ?  "  replied  Mr.  Dowlas,  angrily.  "  I  should 
like  to  hear  any  man  stand  up  and  say  I  want  to  bet  unfair. 
Come  now,  Master  Lundy,  I  should  like  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"  Very  like  you  would,"  said  the  butcher.  "  But  it's  no 
business  o'  mine.  You're  none  o'  my  bargains,  and  I 
aren't  a-going  to  try  and  'bate 1  your  price.  If  anybody  '11 
bid  for  you  at  your  own  vallying,2  let  him.  I'm  for  peace 
and  quietness,  I  am." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  every  yapping  cur  is,  when  you  hold 
a  stick  up  at  him,"  said  the  farrier.  "  But  I'm  afraid  o' 
neither  man  nor  ghost,  and  I'm  ready  to  lay  a  fair  bet.  / 
aren't  a  turn-tail  cur." 

"Ay,  but  there's  this  in  it,  Dowlas,"  said  the  landlord, 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  much  candour  and  tolerance. 
"  There's  folks,  i'  my  opinion,  they  can't  see  ghos'es,  not 
if  they  stood  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff 3  before  'em.  And 

1  Abate,  lessen. 
9  Valuing,  price. 

3  A  weapon  formerly  much  used  for  infantry,  consisting  of  a  wooden 
shaft  from  ten  to  fourteen  feet  long,  with  a  flat,  pointed  steel  head. 


68  SILAS  MARKER 

there's  reason  i'  that.  For  there's  my  wife,  now,  can't 
smell,  not  if  she'd  the  strongest  o'  cheese  under  her  nose. 
I  never  see'd  a  ghost  myself ;  but  then  I  says  to  myself, 
*  Very  like  I  haven't  got  the  smell  for  'em.'  I  mean,  put- 
ting a  ghost  for  a  smell,  or  else  contrairiways.  And  so, 
I'm  for  holding  with  both  sides  ;  for,  as  I  say,  the  truth 
lies  between  'em.  And  if  Dowlas  was  to  go  and  stand, 
and  say  he'd  never  seen  a  wink  o'  Cliff's  Holiday  all  the 
night  through,  I'd  back  him ;  and  if  anybody  said  as  Cliff's 
Holiday  was  certain  sure  for  all  that,  I'd  back  Mm  too. 
For  the  smell's  what  I  go  by." 

The  landlord's  analogical  argument  was  not  well  re- 
ceived by  the  farrier — a  man  intensely  opposed  to  compro- 
mise. 

"  Tut,  tut,"  he  said,  setting  down  his  glass  with  re- 
freshed irritation  ;  "  what's  the  smell  got  to  do  with  it  ? 
Did  ever  a  ghost  give  a  man  a  black  eye  ?  That's  what  I 
should  like  to  know.  If  ghos'es  want  me  to  believe  in 
'em,  let  'em  leave  off  skulking  i'  the  dark  and  i'  lone 
places — let  'em  come  where  there's  company  and  candles." 

"As  if  ghos'es  'ud  want  to  be  believed  in  by  anybody  so 
ignirant !  "  said  Mr.  Macey,  in  deep  disgust  at  the  farrier's 
crass !  incompetence  to  apprehend  the  conditions  of  ghostly 
phenomena.2 

1  What  is  the  derivation  ? 

3  The  following  are  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  midland  dialect 
used  in  this  chapter  and  elsewhere  by  the  people  of  Raveloe,  both 
''gentlefolks"  and  "  cottagers:  "  vd,  would;  ull,  will ;  i\  in  ;  o" ,  of; 
'd,  had;  wi',  with;  no  better  nor,  no  better  than;  as,  that,  which  ; 
along  of,  because.  Not  only  is  George  Eliot's  dialect  noted  for  its  ac- 
curacy, but  her  vivid  representation  of  village  people  is  one  of  the  ele- 
ments of  her  strength. 

This  chapter  prepares  the  stage  for  Marner's  distressed  appearance. 
Note  that  even  the  very  minor  characters  of  the  village  scene  are  care- 
fully distinguished,  and  that  wherever  they  appear  in  the  future  they 
retain  their  individuality. 


CHAPTER  VII1 

YET  the  next  moment  there  seemed  to  be  some  evidenca 
that  ghosts  had  a  more  condescending  disposition  than  Mr. 
Macey  attributed  to  them  ;  for  the  pale  thin  figure  of  Si- 
las Marner  was  suddenly  seen  standing  in  the  warm  light, 
uttering  no  word,  but  looking  round  at  the  company  with 
his  strange  unearthly  eyes.  The  long  pipes  gave  a  simul- 
taneous movement,  like  the  antennae 2  of  startled  insects, 
and  every  man  present,  not  excepting  even  the  sceptical 
farrier,  had  an  impression  that  he  saw,  not  Silas  Marner 
in  the  flesh,  but  an  apparition  ;  for  the  door  by  which 
Silas  had  entered  was  hidden  by  the  high-screened  seats, 
and  no  one  had  noticed  his  approach.  Mr.  Macey,  sitting 
a  long  way  off 3  the  ghost,  might  be  supposed  to  have  felt 
an  argumentative  triumph,  which  would  tend  to  neutralise 
his  share  of  the  general  alarm.  Had  he  not  always  said 
that  when  Silas  Marner  was  in  that  strange  trance  of  his, 
his  soul  went  loose  from  his  body  ?  Here  was  the  demon- 
stration :  nevertheless,  on  the  whole,  he  would  have  been 
as  well  contented  without  it.  For  a  few  moments  there 
was  a  dead  silence,  Marner's  want  of  breath  and  agitation 
not  allowing  him  to  speak.  The  landlord,  under  the  ha- 
bitual sense  that  he  was  bound  to  keep  his  house  open  to 
all  company,  and  confident  in  the  protection  of  his  un- 
broken neutrality,  at  last  took  on  himself  the  task  of  ad- 
juring 4  the  ghost. 

1  For  scenes  similar  to  that  at  the  "  Rainbow,"  see  the  introductory 
chapters  of  Adam  Bede. 

2  Feelers  projecting  from  the  heads  of  certain  insects. 

3  Off  from  V  4  Solemnly  addressing  or  invoking. 


70  8ILA8  MARNER 

"Master  Marner,"  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  tone, 
"  what's  lacking  to  you  ?  What's  your  business  here  ?  " 

"  Eobbed  ! "  said  Silas,  gaspingly.  "  I've  been  robbed  ! 
I  want  the  constable — and  the  Justice  1 — and  Squire  Cass 
— and  Mr.  Crackenthorp." 

"  Lay  hold  on  him,  Jem  Eodney,"  said  the  landlord, 
the  idea  of  a  ghost  subsiding  ;  "  he's  off  his  head,2  I 
doubt.  He's  wet  through." 

Jem  Eodney  was  the  outermost  man,  and.  sat  conven- 
iently near  Marner's  standing-place  ;  but  he  declined  to 
give  his  services. 

"  Come  and  lay  hold  on  him  yourself,  Mr.  Snell,  if 
you've  a  mind,"  said  Jem,  rather  sullenly.  "  He's  been 
robbed,  and  murdered  too,  for  what  I  know,"  he  added,  in 
a  muttering  tone. 

"  Jem  Eodney  ! "  said  Silas,  turning  and  fixing  his 
strange  eyes  on  the  suspected  man. 

"  Ay,  Master  Marner,  what  do  ye  want  wi'  me  ?"  said 
Jem,  trembling  a  little,  and  seizing  his  drinking-can  as  a 
defensive  weapon. 

"  If  it  was  you  stole  my  money,"  said  Silas,  clasping  his 
hands  entreatingly,  and  raising  his  voice  to  a  cry,  "  give  it 
me  back — and  I  won't  meddle  with  you.  I  won't  set  the 
constable  on  you.  Give  it  me  back,  and  I'll  let  you — I'll 
let  you  have  a  guinea." 

"Me  stole  your  money!"  said  Jem,  angrily.  "I'll 
pitch  this  can  at  your  eye  if  you  talk  o'  my  stealing  your 
money." 

"  Come,  come,  Master  Marner,"  said  the  landlord,  now 
rising  resolutely,  and  seizing  Marner  by  the  shoulder,  "  if 
you've  got  any  information  to  lay,3  speak  it  out  sensible, 
and  show  as  you're  in  your  right  mind,  if  you  expect  any- 
body to  listen  to  you.  You're  as  wet  as  a  drownded  rat. 
Sit  down  and  dry  yourself,  and  speak  straight  forrard." 

1  Justice  of  the  Peace,  commonly  the  Squire,  the  village  magistrate. 
8  An  expressive  colloquialism. 
3  I.e.,  before  a  magistrate. 


8ILAS  MARNER  71 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,  man/'  said  the  farrier,  who  began  to 
feel  that  he  had  not  been  quite  on  a  par  with  himself  and 
the  occasion.  "  Let's  have  no  more  staring  and  scream- 
ing, else  we'll  have  you  strapped  for  a  madman.  That  was 
why  I  didn't  speak  at  the  first — thinks  I,  the  man's  run 
mad." 

"Ay,  ay,  make  him  sit  down,"  said  several  voices  at 
once,  well  pleased  that  the  reality  of  ghosts  remained  still 
an  open  question. 

The  landlord  forced  Marner  to  take  off  his  coat,  and 
then  to  sit  down  on  a  chair  aloof  from  every  one  else,  in 
the  centre  of  the  circle  and  in  the  direct  rays  of  the  fire. 
The  weaver,  too  feeble  to  have  any  distinct  purpose  be- 
yond that  of  getting  help  to  recover  his  money,  submitted 
unresistingly.  The  transient  fears  of  the  company  were 
now  forgotten  in  their  strong  curiosity,,  and  all  faces  were 
turned  towards  Silas,  when  the  landlord,  having  seated 
himself  again,  said — 

"  Now  then,  Master  Marner,  what's  this  you've  got  to 
say — as  you've  been  robbed  ?  Speak  out." 

"  He'd  better  not  say  again  as  it  was  me  robbed  him," 
cried  Jem  Eodney,  hastily.  "  What  could  I  ha'  done  with 
his  money  ?  I  could  as  easy  steal  the  parson's  surplice, 
and  wear  it." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Jem,  and  let's  hear  what  he's  got 
to  say,"  said  the  landlord.  "Now  then,  Master  Marner." 

Silas  now  told  his  story,  under  frequent  questioning  as 
the  mysterious  character  of  the  robbery  became  evident. 

This  strangely  novel  situation  of  opening  his  trouble  to 
his  Raveloe  neighbours,  of  sitting  in  the  warmth  of  a 
hearth  not  his  own,  and  feeling  the  presence  of  faces  and 
voices  which  were  his  nearest  promise  of  help,  had  doubt- 
less its  influence  on  Marner,  in  spite  of  his  passionate  pre- 
occupation with  his  loss.  Our  consciousness  rarely  regis- 
ters the  beginning  of  a  growth  within  us  any  more  than 
without  us  :  there  have  been  many  circulations  of  the  sap 
before  we  detect  the  smallest  sign  of  the  bud. 


72  SILAS  MARNER 

The  slight  suspicion  with  which  his  hearers  at  first  lis- 
tened to  him,  gradually  melted  away  before  the  convincing 
simplicity  of  his  distress  :  it  was  impossible  for  the  neigh- 
bours to  doubt  that  Marner  was  telling  the  truth,  not  be- 
cause they  were  capable  of  arguing  at  once  from  the  nature 
of  his  statements  to  the  absence  of  any  motive  for  making 
them  falsely,  but  because,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed,  "  Folks 
as  had  the  devil  to  back  'em  were  not  likely  to  be  so 
mushed  " l  as  poor  Silas  was.  Rather,  from  the  strange 
fact  that  the  robber  had  left  no  traces,  and  had  happened 
to  know  the  nick  of  time,  utterly  incalculable  by  mortal 
agents,  when  Silas  would  go  away  from  home  without  lock- 
ing his  door,  the  more  probable  conclusion  seemed  to  be, 
that  his  disreputable  intimacy  in  that  quarter,  if  it  ever 
existed,  had  been  broken  up,  and  that,  in  consequence, 
this  ill  turn  had  been  done  to  Marner  by  somebody  it  was 
quite  in  vain  to  set  the  constable  after.  Why  this  preter- 
natural felon  should  be  obliged  to  wait  till  the  door  was 
left  unlocked,  was  a  question  which  did  not  present  itself. 

"  It  isn't  Jem  Eodney  as  has  done  this  work,  Master 
Marner,"  said  the  landlord.  "  You  musn't  be  a-casting 
your  eye  at  poor  Jem.  There  may  be  a  bit  of  a  reckoning 
against  Jem  for  the  matter  of  a  hare  or  so  if  anybody  was 
bound  to  keep  their  eyes  staring  open,  and  niver  to  wink; 
but  Jem's  been  a-sitting  here  drinking  his  can,  like  the  de- 
centest  man  i'  the  parish,  since  before  you  left  your  house, 
Master  Marner,  by  your  own  account." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Macey;  "let's  have  no  accusing  o' 
the  innicent.  That  isn't  the  law.  There  must  be  folks  to 
swear  again' 2  a  man  before  he  can  be  ta'en  up.  Let's  have 
no  accusing  o'  the  innicent,  Master  Marner." 

Memory  was  not  so  utterly  torpid  in  Silas  that  it  could 
not  be  wakened  by  these  words.  With  a  movement  of  com- 
punction as  new  and  strange  to  him  as  everything  else 
within  the  last  hour,  he  started  from  his  chair  and  went 

1  Dialect  for  "  mashed." 

a  "To  swear  again1  a  man,"  to  swear  out  a  warrant  against  a  man, 


SILAS  MARNER  73 

close  up  to  Jem,  looking  at  him  as  if  he  wanted  to  assure 
himself  of  the  expression  in  his  face. 

"I  was  Avrong,"  he  said — "yes,  yes — I  ought  to  have 
thought.  There's  nothing  to  witness  against  you,  Jem. 
Only  you'd  been  into  my  house  oftener  than  anybody  else, 
and  so  you  came  into  my  head.  I  don't  accuse  you — I 
won't  accuse  anybody — only,"  he  added,  lifting  up  his 
hands  to  his  head,  and  turning  away  with  bewildered 
misery,  "  I  try — I  try  to  think  where  my  guineas  can  be." 

"Ay,  ay,  they're  gone  where  it's  hot  enough  to  melt 
'em,  I  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Macey. 

"  Tchuh  !"  said  the  farrier.  And  then  he  asked,  with 
a  cross-examining  air,  "  How  much  money  might  there  be 
in  the  bags,  Master  Marner  ?  " 

"  Two  hundred  and  seventy-two  pounds,  twelve  and  six- 
pence, last  night  when  I  counted  it,"  said  Silas,  seating 
himself  again,  with  a  groan. 

"  Pooh  !  why,  they'd  be  none  so  heavy  to  carry.  Some 
tramp's  been  in,  that's  all  ;  and  as  for  the  no  footmarks, 
and  the  bricks  and  the  sand  being  all  right — why,  your 
eyes  are  pretty  much  like  a  insect's,  Master  Marner  ; 
they're  obliged  to  look  so  close,  you  can't  see  much  at  a 
time.  It's  my  opinion  as,  if  I'd  been  you,  or  you'd  been 
me — for  it  comes  to  the  same  thing — you  wouldn't  have 
thought  you'd  found  everything  as  you  left  it.  But  what 
I  vote  is,  as  two  of  the  rsensiblest  o'  the  company  should  go 
with  you  to  Master  Kench,  the  constable's — he's  ill  i'  bed, 
I  know  that  much — and  get  him  to  appoint  one  of  us  his 
deppity  ;  for  that's  the  law,  and  I  don't  think  anybody 
'nil  take  upon  him  to  contradick  me  there.  It  isn't  much 
of  a  walk  to  Kench's ;  and  then,  if  it's  me  as  is  deppity, 
I'll  go  back  with  you,  Master  Marner,  and  examine  your 
premises  ;  and  if  anybody's  got  any  fault  to  find  with  that, 
I'll  thank  him  to  stand  up  and  say  it  out  like  a  man." 

By  this  pregnant  speech  the  farrier  had  re-established 
his  self-complacency,  and  waited  with  confidence  to  hear 
himself  named  as  one  of  the  superlatively  sensible  men. 


74:  SILAS  MARNER 

"  Let  us  see  how  the  night  is,  though,"  said  the  land- 
lord, who  also  considered  himself  personally  concerned  in 
this  proposition.  "  Why,  it  rains  heavy  still,"  he  said,  re- 
turning from  the  door. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  the  man  to  be  afraid  o'  the  rain,"  said 
the  farrier.  "  For  it'll  'look  bad  when  Justice  Malam 
hears  as  respectable  men  like  us  had  a  information  laid  be- 
fore 'em  and  took  no  steps." 

The  landlord  agreed  with  this  view,  and  after  taking  the 
sense  of  the  company,  and  duly  rehearsing  a  small  cere- 
mony known  in  high  ecclesiastical  life  as  the  nolo  episco- 
pari,1  he  consented  to  take  on  himself  the  chill  dignity  of 
going  to  Kench's.  But  to  the  farrier's  strong  disgust,  Mr. 
Macey  now  started  an  objection  to  his  proposing  himself 
as  a  deputy-constable  ;  for  that  oracular  old  gentleman, 
claiming  to  know  the  law,  stated,  as  a  fact  delivered  to 
him  by  his  father,  that  no  doctor  could  be  a  constable. 

"  And  you're  a  doctor,  I  reckon,  though  you're  only  a 
cow-doctor,  for  a  fly's  a  fly,  though  it  may  be  a  hoss  fly," 
concluded  Mr.  Macey,  wondering  a  little  at  his  own 
"  'cuteness." 

There  was  a  hot  debate  upon  this,  the  farrier  being  of 
course  indisposed  to  renounce  the  quality  of  doctor,  but 
contending  that  a  doctor  could  be  a  constable  if  he  liked — 
the  law  meant,  he  needn't  be  one  if  he  didn't  like.  Mr. 
Macey  thought  this  was  nonsense,  since  the  law  was  not 
likely  to  be  fonder  of  doctors  than  of  other  folks.  More- 
over, if  it  was  in  the  nature  of  doctors  more  than  of  other 
men  not  to  like  being  constables,  how  came  Mr.  Dowlas  to 
be  so  eager  to  act  in  that  capacity  ? 

"  I  don't  want  to  act  the  constable,"  said  the  farrier, 
driven  into  a  corner  by  this  merciless  reasoning ;  ' ( and 
there's  no  man  can  say  it  of  me,  if  he'd  tell  the  truth.  But 
if  there's  to  be  any  jealousy  and  ending  about  going  to 

1  Nolo  episcopari  (I  do  not  wish  to  accept  the  office  of  a  bishop),  a 
protestation  of  disinterestedness  that  bishops  were  supposed  to  make 
before  being  consecrated. 


SILAS  MARNER  75 

Kench's  in  the  rain,  let  them  go  as  like  it — you  won't  get 
me  to  go,  I  can  tell  yon." 

By  the  landlord's  intervention,  however,  the  dispute  was 
accommodated.  Mr.  Dowlas  consented  to  go  as  a  second 
person  disinclined  to  act  officially  ;  and  so  poor  Silas,  fur- 
nished with  some  old  coverings,  turned  out  with  his  two 
companions  into  the  rain  again,  thinking  of  the  long  night- 
hours  before  him,  not  as  those  do  who  long  to  rest,  but  as 
those  who  expect  to  "watch  for  the  morning."1 

1  In  the  last  paragraph  of  page  71  George  Eliot  indicates  the  moral 
significance  of  this  chapter. 

By  this  animated  scene  two  of  the  three  elements  in  the  narrative 
are  related.  How  do  the  villagers  receive  Marner  ?  Write  a  short 
account  of  some  other  village  community  suggested  by  Raveloe. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN"  Godfrey  Cass  returned  from  Mrs.  Osgood's  party 
at  midnight,  he  was  not  much  surprised  to  learn  that  Dun- 
sey  had  not  come  home.  Perhaps  he  had  not  sold  Wild- 
fire, and  was  waiting  for  another  chance — perhaps,  on  that 
foggy  afternoon,  he  had  preferred  housing  himself  at  the 
Red  Lion  at  Batherley  for  the  night,  if  the  run  had  kept 
him  in  that  neighborhood  ;  for  he  was  not  likely  to  feel 
much  concern  about  leaving  his  brother  in  suspense. 
Godfrey's  mind  was  too  full  of  Nancy  Lammeter's  looks 
and  behaviour,  too  full  of  the  exasperation  against  himself 
and  his  lot,  which  the  sight  of  her  always  produced  in  him, 
for  him  to  give  much  thought  to  Wildfire,  or  to  the  prob- 
abilities of  Dunstan's  conduct. 

The  next  morning  the  whole  village  was  excited  by  the 
story  of  the  robbery,  and  Godfrey,  like  every  one  else,  was 
occupied  in  gathering  and  discussing  news  about  it,  and  in 
visiting  the  Stone-pits.  The  rain  had  washed  away  all 
possibility  of  distinguishing  footmarks,  but  a  close  inves- 
tigation of  the  spot  had  disclosed,  in  the  direction  opposite 
to  the  village,  a  tinder-box,  with  a  flint  and  steel,1  half 
sunk  in  the  mud.  It  was  not  Silas's  tinder-box,  for  the 
only  one  he  had  ever  had  was  still  standing  on  his  shelf  ; 
and  the  inference  generally  accepted  was,  that  the  tinder- 
box  in  the  ditch  was  somehow  connected  with  the  robbery. 
A  small  minority  shook  their  heads,  and  intimated  their 
opinion  that  it  was  not  a  robbery  to  have  much  light 
thrown  on  it  by  tinder-boxes,  that  Master  Marner*s  tale 
had  a  queer  look  with  it,  and  that  such  things  had  been 

1  "  A  tinder-box,  with  a  flint  and  steel,"  materials  for  striking  fire, 
used  before  the  introduction  of  matches. 


SILAS  MARNER  77 

known  as  a  man's  doing  himself  a  mischief,  and  then  set- 
ting the  justice  to  look  for  the  doer.  But  when  ques- 
tioned closely  as  to  their  grounds  for  this  opinion,  and 
what  Master  Marner  had  to  gain  by  such  false  pretences, 
they  only  shook  their  heads  as  before,  and  observed  that 
there  was  no  knowing  what  some  folks  counted  gain ; 
moreover,  that  everybody  had  a  right  to  their  own  opin- 
ions, grounds  or  no  grounds,  and  that  the  weaver,  as 
everybody  knew,  was  partly  crazy.  Mr.  Macey,  though 
he  joined  in  the  defence  of  Marner  against  all  suspicions  of 
deceit,  also  pooh-poohed  the  tinder-box  ;  indeed,  repudi- 
ated it  as  a  rather  impious  suggestion,  tending  to  imply 
that  everything  must  be  done  by  human  hands,  and  that 
there  was  no  power  which  could  make  away  with  the  guin- 
eas without  moving  the  bricks.  Nevertheless,  he  turned 
round  rather  sharply  on  Mr.  Tookey,  when  the  zealous 
deputy,  feeling  that  this  was  a  view  of  the  case  peculiarly 
suited  to  a  parish-clerk,  carried  it  still  further,  and  doubt- 
ed whether  it  was  right  to  inquire  into  a  robbery  at  all 
when  the  circumstances  were  so  mysterious. 

"As  if,"  concluded  Mr.  Tookey — "as  if  there  was 
nothing  but  what  could  be  made  out  by  justices  and  con- 
stables." 

"Now,  don't  you  be  for  overshooting  the  mark, 
Tookey,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  nodding  his  head  aside,  admon- 
ishingly.  "  That's  what  you're  allays  at ;  if  I  throw  a 
stone  and  hit,  you  think  there's  summat  better  than  hit- 
ting, and  you  try  to  throw  a  stone  beyond.  "What  I  said 
was  against  the  tinder-box  :  I  said  nothing  against  jus- 
tices and  constables,  for  they're  o'  King  George's  mak- 
ing,1 and  it  'ud  be  ill-becoming  a  man  in  a  parish  office  to 
fly  out  again'  King  George." 

While  these  discussions  were  going  on  amongst  the 
group  outside  the  Kainbow,  a  higher  consultation  was  be- 
ing carried  on  within,  under  the  presidency  of  Mr.  Crack- 
enthorp,  the  rector,  assisted  by  Squire  Cass  and  other  sub- 

1  "  They're  o'  King  George's  making,"  i.e.,  officers  of  the  crown. 


78  SILAS  MARNER 

stantial  parishioners.  It  had  just  occurred  to  Mr.  Snell, 
the  landlord — he  being,  as  he  observed,  a  man  accustomed 
to  put  two  and  two  together — to  connect  with  the  tinder- 
box,  which,  as  deputy-constable,  he  himself  had  had  the 
honourable  distinction  of  finding,  certain  recollections  of  a 
pedlar  who  had  called  to  drink  at  the  house  about  a  month 
before,  and  had  actually  stated  that  he  carried  a  tinder-box 
about  with  him  to  light  his  pipe.  Here,  surely,  was  a  clue 
to  be  followed  out.  And  as  memory,  when  duly  impregnated 
with  ascertained  facts,  is  sometimes  surprisingly  fertile, 
Mr.  Snell  gradually  recovered  a  vivid  impression  of  the 
effect  produced  on  him  by  the  pedlar's  countenance  and 
conversation.  He  had  a  "  look  with  his  eye  "  which  fell 
unpleasantly  on  Mr.  Snell's  sensitive  organism.  To  be 
sure,  he  didn't  say  anything  particular — no,  except  that 
about  the  tinder-box — but  it  isn't  what  a  man  says,  it's  the 
way  he  says  it.  Moreover,  he  had  a  swarthy  foreignness 
of  complexion  which  boded  little  honesty. 

"  Did  he  wear  ear-rings  ?  "  Mr.  Crackenthorp  wished  to 
know,  having  some  acquaintance  with  foreign  customs. 

"  Well — stay — let  me  see/'  said  Mr.  Snell,  like  a  docile 
clairvoyante,1  who  would  really  not  make  a  mistake  if  she 
could  help  it.  After  stretching  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
and  contracting  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  see  the 
ear-rings,  he  appeared  to  give  up  the  effort,  and  said, 
"  Well,  he'd  got  ear-rings  in  his  box  to  sell,  so  it's  nat'ral 
to  suppose  he  might  wear  'em.  But  he  called  at  every 
house,  a'most,  in  the  village  ;  there's  somebody  else,  may- 
hap, saw  'em  in  his  ears,  though  I  can't  take  upon  me 
rightly  to  say." 

Mr.  Snell  was  correct  in  his  surmise,  that  somebody 
else  would  remember  the  pedlar's  ear-rings.  For  on  the 
spread  of  inquiry  among  the  villagers  it  was  stated,  with 
gathering  emphasis,  that  the  parson  had  wanted  to  know 
whether  the  pedlar  wore  ear-rings  in  his  ears,  and  an  impres- 

1  The  feminine  form  of  the  French  word,  clairvoyant,  which  means 
literally,  "  seeing  clearly." 


SILAS  MARNER  79 

sion  was  created  that  a  great  deal  depended  on  the  eliciting 
of  this  fact.  Of  course,  every  one  who  heard  the  question, 
not  having  any  distinct  image  of  the  pedlar  as  without  ear- 
rings, immediately  had  an  image  of  him  with  ear-rings, 
larger  or  smaller,  as  the  case  might  be  ;  and  the  image  was 
presently  taken  for  a  vivid  recollection,  so  that  the  gla- 
zier's wife,  a  well-intentioned  woman,  not  given  to  lying, 
and  whose  house  was  among  the  cleanest  in  the  village, 
was  ready  to  declare,  as  sure  as  ever  she  meant  to  take  the 
sacrament  the  very  next  Christmas  that  was  ever  coming, 
that  she  had  seen  big  ear-rings,  in  the  shape  of  the  young 
moon,  in  the  pedlar's  two  ears  ;  while  Jinny  Gates,  the 
cobbler's  daughter,  being  a  more  imaginative  person,  stated 
not  only  that  she  had  seen  them  too,  but  that  they  had 
made  her  blood  creep,  as  it  did  at  that  very  moment  while 
there  she  stood. 

Also,  by  way  of  throwing  further  light  on  this  clue  of 
the  tinder-box,  a  collection  was  made  of  all  the  articles  pur- 
chased from  the  pedlar  at  various  houses,  and  carried  to  the 
Rainbow  to  be  exhibited  there.  In  fact,  there  was  a  gen- 
eral feeling  in  the  village,  that  for  the  clearing-up  of  this 
robbery  there  must  be  a  great  deal  done  at  the  Eainbow, 
and  that  no  man  need  offer  his  wife  an  excuse  for  going 
there  while  it  was  the  scene  of  severe  public  duties. 

Some  disappointment  was  felt,  and  perhaps  a  little  indig- 
nation also,  when  it  became  known  that  Silas  Marner,  on 
being  questioned  by  the  Squire  and  the  parson,  had  retained 
no  other  recollection  of  the  pedlar  than  that  he  had  called 
at  his  door,  but  had  not  entered  his  house,  having  turned 
away  at  once  when  Silas,  holding  the  door  ajar,  had  said 
that  he  wanted  nothing.  This  had  been  Silas's  testimony, 
though  he  clutched  strongly  at  the  idea  of  the  pedlar's  be- 
ing the  culprit,  if  only  because  it  gave  him  a  definite  im- 
age of  a  whereabout  for  his  gold  after  it  had  been  taken 
away  from  its  hiding-place  :  he  could  see  it  now  in  the  ped- 
lar's box.  But  it  was  observed  with  some  irritation  in  the 
village,  that  anybody  but  a  "  blind  creatur  "  like  Marner 


80  SILAS  MARNER 

would  have  seen  the  man  prowling  about,  for  how  came  he 
to  leave  his  tinder-box  in  the  ditch  close  by,  if  he  hadn't 
been  lingering  there  ?  Doubtless,  he  had  made  his  obser- 
vations when  he  saw  Marner  at  the  door.  Anybody  might 
know — and  only  look  at  him — that  the  weaver  was  a  half- 
crazy  miser.  It  was  a  wonder  the  pedlar  hadn't  murdered 
him  ;  men  of  that  sort,  with  rings  in  their  ears,  had  been 
known  for  murderers  often  and  often  ;  there  had  been  one 
tried  at  the  'sizes,1  not  so  long  ago  but  what  there  were 
people  living  who  remembered  it. 

Godfrey  Cass,  indeed,  entering  the  Eainbow  during  one 
of  Mr.  Snell's  frequently  repeated  recitals  of  his  testimony, 
had  treated  it  lightly,  stating  that  he  himself  had  bought 
a  pen-knife  of  the  pedlar,  and  thought  him  a  merry  grin- 
ning fellow  enough  ;  it  was  all  nonsense,  he  said,  about  the 
man's  evil  looks.  But  this  was  spoken  of  in  the  village  as 
the  random  talk  of  youth,  "  as  if  it  was  only  Mr.  Snell  who 
had  seen  something  odd  about  the  pedlar  !  "  On  the  con- 
trary, there  were  at  least  half-a-dozen  who  were  ready  to  go 
before  Justice  Malam,  and  give  in  much  more  striking  tes- 
timony than  any  the  landlord  could  furnish.  It  was  to  be 
hoped  Mr.  Godfrey  would  not  go  to  Tarley  and  throw  cold 
water  on  what  Mr.  Snell  said  there,  and  so  prevent  the  jus- 
tice from  drawing  up  a  warrant.  He  was  suspected  of  in- 
tending this,  when,  after  mid-day,  he  was  seen  setting  off 
on  horseback  in  the  direction  of  Tarley. 

But  by  this  time  Godfrey's  interest  in  the  robbery  had 
faded  before  his  growing  anxiety  about  Dunstan  and  Wild- 
fire, and  he  was  going,  not  to  Tarley,  but  to  Batherley, 
unable  to  rest  in  uncertainty  about  them  any  longer.  The 
possibility  that  Dunstan  had  played  him  the  ugly  trick  of 
riding  away  with  "Wildfire,  to  return  at  the  end  of  a  month, 
when  he  had  gambled  away  or  otherwise  squandered  the 
price  of  the  horse,  was  a  fear  that  urged  itself  upon  him 

1  The  assizes  :  originally  a  sitting  or  session  of  a  legislative  body,  or 
court ;  here  reference  is  made  to  the  semi-annual  court  held  in  each 
county  of  England  and  Wales. 


SILAS  MARNER  81 

more,  even,  than  the  thought  of  an  accidental  injury ;  and 
now  that  the  dance  at  Mrs.  Osgood's  was  past,  he  was  irri- 
tated with  himself  that  he  had  trusted  his  horse  to  Dim- 
stan.  Instead  of  trying  to  still  his  fears  he  encouraged 
them,  with  that  superstitious  impression  which  clings  to  us 
all,  that  if  we  expect  evil  very  strongly  it  is  the  less  likely 
to  come  ;  and  when  he  heard  a  horse  approaching  at  a 
trot,  and  saw  a  hat  rising  above  a  hedge  beyond  an  angle 
of  the  lane,  he  felt  as  if  his  conjuration  had  succeeded. 
But  no  sooner  did  the  horse  come  within  sight,  than  his 
heart  sank  again.  It  was  not  Wildfire  ;  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments more  he  discerned  that  the  rider  was  not  Dunstan, 
but  Bryce,  who  pulled  up  to  speak,  with  a  face  that  im- 
plied something  disagreeable. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that's  a  lucky  brother  of  yours, 
that  Master  Dunsey,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  AVhat  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Godfrey,  hastily. 

"  Why,  hasn't  he  been  home  yet  ?  "  said  Bryce. 

"  Home  ?  no.  What  has  happened  ?  Be  quick.  What 
has  he  done  with  my  horse  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  thought  it  was  yours,  though  he  pretended  you 
had  parted  with  it  to  him." 

"  Has  he  thrown  him  down  and  broken  his  knees?" 
said  Godfrey,  flushed  with  exasperation. 

"  Worse  than  that,"  said  Bryce.  "  You  see,  I'd  made  a 
bargain  with  him  to  buy  the  horse  for  a  hundred  and 
twenty — a  swinging T  price,  but  I  always  liked  the  horse. 
And  what  does  he  do  but  go  and  stake  him — fly  at  a  hedge 
with  stakes  in  it,  atop  of  a  bank  with  a  ditch  before  it.2 
The  horse  had  been  dead  a  pretty  good  while  when  he  was 
found.  So  he  hasn't  been  home  since,  has  he  ?  " 

"  Home  ?  no,"  said  Godfrey,  "  and  he'd  better  keep 
away.  Confound  me  for  a  fool  !  I  might  have  known 
this  would  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Bryce,  "  after  I'd 

'More  properly,  swingeing — great,  severe. 
8  Specially  prepared  for  a  difficult  leap. 
6 


82  SILAS  MARNER 

bargained  for  the  horse,  it  did  come  into  my  head  that  he 
might  be  riding  and  selling  the  horse  without  your  knowl- 
edge, for  I  didn't  believe  it  was  his  own.  I  knew  Master 
Dunsey  was  up  to  his  tricks  sometimes.  But  where  can 
he  be  gone  ?  He's  never  been  seen  at  Batherley.  He 
couldn't  have  been  hurt,  for  he  must  have  walked  off." 

"  Hurt  ?  "  said  Godfrey,  bitterly.  "  He'll  never  be  hurt 
— he's  made  to  hurt  other  people." 

"  And  so  you  did  give  him  leave  to  sell  the  horse,  eh  ?  " 
said  Bryce. 

"  Yes  ;  I  wanted  to  part  with  the  horse — he  was  always 
a  little  too  hard  in  the  mouth  for  me,"  said  Godfrey  ;  his 
pride  making  him  wince  under  the  idea  that  Bryce  guessed 
the  sale  to  be  a  matter  of  necessity.  "  I  was  going  to  see 
after  him — I  thought  some  mischief  had  happened.  I'll 
go  back  now,"  he  added,  turning  the  horse's  head,  and 
wishing  he  could  get  rid  of  Bryce  ;  for  he  felt  that  the 
long -dreaded  crisis  in  his  life  was  close  upon  him. 
"  You're  coming  on  to  Raveloe,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  not  now,"  said  Bryce.  "  I  was  coming  round 
there,  for  I  had  to  go  to  Flitton,  and  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  take  you  in  my  way,  and  just  let  you  know  all  I  knew 
myself  about  the  horse.  I  suppose  Master  Dunsey  didn't 
like  to  show  himself  till  the  ill  news  had  blown  over  a  bit. 
He's  perhaps  gone  to  pay  a  visit  at  the  Three  Crowns,  by 
Whitbridge — I  know  he's  fond  of  the  house." 

"Perhaps  he  is,"  said  Godfrey,  rather  absently.  Then 
rousing  himself,  he  said,  with  an  effort  at  carelessness, 
"  We  shall  hear  of  him  soon  enough,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  Well,  here's  my  turning,"  said  Bryce,  not  surprised  to 
perceive  that  Godfrey  was  rather  "  down  ; "  "  so  I'll  bid 
you  good-day,  and  wish  I  may  bring  you  better  news  an- 
other time." 

Godfrey  rode  along  slowly,  representing  to  himself  the 
scene  of  confession  to  his  father  from  which  he  felt  that 
there  was  now  no  longer  any  escape.  The  revelation  about 
the  money  must  be  made  the  very  next  morning  ;  and  if  he 


SILAS  MARNER  83 

withheld  the  rest,  Dunstan  would  be  sure  to  come  back 
shortly,  and,  finding  that  he  must  bear  the  brunt  of  his 
father's  anger,  would  tell  the  whole  story  out  of  spite,  even 
though  he  had  nothing  to  gain  by  it.  There  was  one  step, 
perhaps,  by  which  he  might  still  win  Dunstan's  silence  and 
put  off  the  evil  day  :  he  might  tell  his  father  that  he  had 
Himself  spent  the  money  paid  to  him*by  Fowler  ;  and  as  he 
had  never  been  guilty  of  such  an  offence  before,  the  affair 
would  blow  over  after  a  little  storming.  But  Godfrey  could 
not  bend  himself  to  this.  He  felt  that  in  letting  Dunstan 
have  the  money,  he  had  already  been  guilty  of  a  breach  of 
trust  hardly  less  culpable  than  that  of  spending  the  money 
directly  for  his  own  behoof  ;  and  yet  there  was  a  distinction 
between  the  two  acts  which  made  him  feel  that  the  one  was 
so  much  more  blackening  than  the  other  as  to  be  intoler- 
able to  him. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  good  fellow,"  he  said  to  him- 
self ;  "but  I'm  not  a  scoundrel — at  least,  I'll  stop  short 
somewhere.  I'll  bear  the  consequences  of  what  I  have  done 
sooner  than  make  believe  I've  done  what  I  never  would 
have  done.  I'd  never  have  spent  the  money  for  my  own 
pleasure — I  was  tortured  into  it/* 

Through  the  remainder  of  this  day  Godfrey,  with  only 
occasional  fluctuations,  kept  his  will  bent  in  the  direction 
of  a  complete  avowal  to  his  father,  and  he  withheld  the 
story  of  Wildfire's  loss  till  the  next  morning,  that  it  might 
serve  him  as  an  introduction  to  heavier  matter.  The  old 
Squire  was  accustomed  to  his  son's  frequent  absence  from 
home,  and  thought  neither  Dunstan's  nor  Wildfire's  non- 
appearance  a  matter  calling  for  remark.  Godfrey  said  to 
himself  again  and  again,  that  if  he  let  slip  this  one  oppor- 
tunity of  confession,  he  might  never  have  another  ;  the  re- 
velation might  be  made  even  in  a  more  odious  way  than  by 
Dnnstan's  malignity  :  she  might  come  as  she  had  threatened 
to  do.  And  then  he  tried  to  make  the  scene  easier  to  him- 
self by  rehearsal  :  he  made  up  his  mind  how  he  would  pass 
from  the  admission  of  his  weakness  in  letting  Dunstan  have 


84  BILA8  MARNER 

the  money  to  the  fact  that  Dunstan  had  a  hold  on  him 
which  he  had  been  unable  to  shake  off,  and  how  he  would 
work  up  his  father  to  expect  something  very  bad  before  he 
told  him  the  fact.  The  old  Squire  was  an  implacable  man  : 
he  made  resolutions  in  violent  anger,  and  he  was  not  to  be 
moved  from  them  after  his  anger  had  subsided — as  fiery 
volcanic  matters  cool  and  harden  into  rock.  Like  many 
violent  and  implacable  men,  he  allowed  evils  to  grow  under 
favour  of  his  own  heedlessness,  till  they  pressed  upon  him 
with  exasperating  force,  and  then  he  turned  round  with 
fierce  severity  and  became  unrelentingly  hard.  This  was 
his  system  with  his  tenants  :  he  allowed  them  to  get  into 
arrears,1  neglect  their  fences,  reduce  their  stock,  sell  their 
straw,  and  otherwise  go  the  wrong  way — and  then,  when 
he  became  short  of  money  in  consequence  of  this  indul- 
gence, he  took  the  hardest  measures  and  would  listen  to  no 
appeal.  Godfrey  knew  all  this,  and  felt  it  with  the  greater 
force  because  he  had  constantly  suffered  annoyance  from 
witnessing  his  father's  sudden  fits  of  unrelentingness,2  for 
which  his  own  habitual  irresolution  deprived  him  of  all 
sympathy.  (He  was  not  critical  on  the  faulty  indulgence 
which  preceded  these  fits ;  that  seemed  to  him  natural 
enough. )  Still  there  was  just  the  chance,  Godfrey  thought, 
that  his  father's  pride  might  see  this  marriage  in  a  light 
that  would  induce  him  to  hush  it  up,  rather  than  turn  his 
son  out  and  make  the  family  the  talk  of  the' country  for  ten 
miles  round. 

This  was  the  view  of  the  case  that  Godfrey  managed  to 
keep  before  him  pretty  closely  till  midnight,  and  he  went 
to  sleep  thinking  that  he  had  done  with  inward  debating. 
But  when  he  awoke  in  the  still  morning  darkness  he  found 
it  impossible  to  reawaken  his  evening  thoughts  ;  it  was  as 
if  they  had  been  tired  out  and  were  not  to  be  roused  to 
further  work.  Instead  of  arguments  for  confession,  ha 
could  now  feel  the  presence  of  nothing  but  its  evil  conse- 

1  "To  get  into  arrears,"  to  fall  behind  in  payment  for  rent. 
*  A  clumsy  abstract  form. 


SILAS  MARNER  85 

quences :  the  old  dread  of  disgrace  came  back — the  old 
shrinking  from  the  thought  of  raising  a  hopeless  barrier 
between  himself  and  Nancy — the  old  disposition  to  rely  on 
chances  which  might  be  favourable  to  him,  and  save  him 
from  betrayal.  Why,  after  all,  should  he  cut  off  the  hope 
of  them  by  his  own  act  ?  He  had  seen  the  matter  in  a 
wrong  light  yesterday.  He  had  been  in  a  rage  with  Dun- 
stan,  and  had  thought  of  nothing  but  a  thorough  break- 
up of  their  mutual  understanding ;  but  what  it  would  be 
really  wisest  for  him  to  do,  was  to  try  and  soften  his 
father's  anger  against  Dunsey,  and  keep  things  as  nearly 
as  possible  in  their  old  condition.  If  Dunsey  did  not 
come  back  for  a  few  days  (and  Godfrey  did  not  know  but 
that  the  rascal  had  enough  money  in  his  pocket  to  enable 
him  to  keep  away  still  longer),  everything  might  blow 
over.1 

1  What  is  the  analytical  part  of  this  chapter  ?  Does  it  assist  or  re- 
tard the  narrative  ? 

The  reader's  attention  is  carried  away  from  the  robbery  to  the  crisis 
in  Godfrey  Cass's  affairs ;  therefore,  from  the  first  paragraph  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter  the  interest  centres  about  Godfrey's  weakness  in  this 


CHAPTER  IX 

GODFEEY  rose  and  took  his  own  breakfast  earlier  than 
usual,  but  lingered  in  the  wainscoted  parlour  till  his 
younger  brothers  had  finished  their  meal  and  gone  out ; 
awaiting  his  father,  who  always  took  a  walk  with  his  man- 
aging-man before  breakfast.  Every  one  breakfasted  at  a 
different  hour  in  the  Red  House,  and  the  Squire  was  al- 
ways the  latest,  giving  a  long  chance  to  a  rather  feeble 
morning  appetite  before  he  tried  it.  The  table  had  been 
spread  with  substantial  eatables  nearly  two  hours  before  he 
presented  himself — a  tall,  stout  man  of  sixty,  with  a  face 
in  which  the  knit  brow  and  rather  hard  glance  seemed 
contradicted  by  the  slack  and  feeble  mouth.  His  person 
showed  marks  of  habitual  neglect,  his  dress  was  slovenly  ; 
and  yet  there  was  something  in  the  presence  of  the  old 
Squire  distinguishable  from  that  of  the  ordinary  farmers 
in  the  parish,  who  were  perhaps  every  whit  as  refined  as 
he,  but,  having  slouched  their  way  through  life  with  a 
consciousness  of  being  in  the  vicinity  of  their  "betters," 
wanted  that  self-possession  and  authoritativeness  of  voice 
and  carriage  which  belonged  to  a  man  who  thought  of  su- 
periors as  remote  existences  with  whom  he  had  personally 
little  more  to  do  than  with  America  or  the  stars.  The 
Squire  had  been  used  to  parish  homage  all  his  life,  used  to 
the  presupposition  that  his  family,  his  tankards,  and  every- 
thing that  was  his,  were  the  oldest  and  best ;  and  as  he 
never  associated  with  any  gentry  higher  than  himself,  his 
opinion  was  not  disturbed  by  comparison. 

He  glanced  at  his  son  as  he  entered  the  room,  and  said, 
"  What,  sir  !  haven't  you  had  your  breakfast  yet  ?  "  but 
there  was  no  pleasant  morning  greeting  between  them ; 


SILAS  MARNER  87 

not  because  of  any  unfriendliness,  but  because  the  sweet 
flower  of  courtesy  is  not  a  growth  of  such  homes  as  the 
Eed  House. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Godfrey,  "I've  had  my  breakfast,  but 
I  was  waiting  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Ah  !  well,"  said  the  Squire,  throwing  himself  indiffer- 
ently into  his  chair,  and  speaking  in  a  ponderous  coughing 
fashion,  which  was  felt  in  Kaveloe  to  be  a  sort  of  privilege 
of  his  rank,  while  he  cut  a  piece  of  beef,  and  held  it  up 
before  the  deer-hound  that  had  come  in  with  him.  "Ring 
the  bell  for  my  ale,  will  you  ?  You  youngsters'  business 
is  your  own  pleasure,  mostly.  There's  no  hurry  about  it 
for  anybody  but  yourselves." 

The  Squire's  life  was  quite  as  idle  as  his  sons',  but  it 
was  a  fiction  kept  up  by  himself  and  his  contemporaries  in 
Kaveloe  that  youth  was  exclusively  the  period  of  folly,  and 
that  their  aged  wisdom  was  constantly  in  a  state  of  endur- 
ance mitigated  by  sarcasm.  Godfrey  waited,  before  he  spoke 
again,  until  the  ale  had  been  brought  and  the  door  closed 
— an  interval  during  which  Fleet,  the  deer-hound,  had 
consumed  enough  bits  of  beef  to  make  a  poor  man's  holi- 
day dinner. 

"  There's  been  a  cursed  piece  of  ill-luck  with  Wildfire," 
he  began  ;  "happened  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  What !  broke  his  knees  ?  "  said  the  Squire,  after  tak- 
ing a  draught  of  ale.  "  I  thought  you  knew  how  to  ride 
better  than  that,  sir.  I  never  threw  a  horse  down  in  my 
life.  If  I  had,  I  might  ha'  whistled  for  another,  for  my 
father  wasn't  quite  so  ready  to  unstring1  as  some  other 
fathers  I  know  of.  But  they  must  turn  over  a  new  leaf — 
they  must.  What  with  mortgages  and  arrears,  I'm  as 
short  o'  cash  as  a  roadside  pauper.  And  that  fool  Kimble 
says  the  newspaper's  talking  about  peace.2  Why,  the 
country  wouldn't  have  a  leg  to  stand  on.  Prices  'ud  run 
down  like  a  jack,3  and  I  should  never  get  my  arrears,  not 

1  Slang  for  "  open  his  purse."  a  See  note  3,  p.  28. 

1  The  jack  of  the  clock-house  was  an  automaton  that  either  struck 


88  SILAS  MARNER 

if  I  sold  all  the  fellows  up.1  And  there's  that  damned 
Fowler,  I  won't  put  up  with  him  any  longer ;  I've  told 
Winthrop  to  go  to  Cox  this  very  day.  The  lying  scoun- 
drel told  me  he'd  be  sure  to  pay  me  a  hundred 2  last  month. 
He  takes  advantage  because  he's  on  that  outlying  farm,  and 
thinks  I  shall  forget  him." 

The  Squire  had  delivered  this  speech  in  a  coughing  and 
interrupted  manner,  but  with  no  pause  long  enough  for 
Godfrey  to  make  it  a  pretext  for  taking  up  the  word  again. 
He  felt  that  his  father  meant  to  ward  off  any  request  for 
money  on  the  ground  of  the  misfortune  with  Wildfire,  and 
that  the  emphasis  he  had  thus  been  led  to  lay  on  his  short- 
ness of  cash  and  his  arrears  was  likely  to  produce  an  atti- 
tude of  mind  the  utmost  unfavourable  for  his  own  disclos- 
ure. But  he  must  go  on,  now  he  had  begun. 

"It's  worse  than  breaking  the  horse's  knees — he's  been 
staked  and  killed,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  his  father  was 
silent,  and  had  begun  to  cut  his  meat.  "  But  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  asking  you  to  buy  me  another  horse ;  I  was 
only  thinking  I'd  lost  the  means  of  paying  you  with  the 
price  of  Wildfire,  as  I'd  meant  to  do.  Dunsey  took  him  to 
the  hunt  to  sell  him  for  me  the  other  day,  and  after  he'd 
made  a  bargain  for  a  hundred  and  twenty  with  Bryce,  he 
went  after  the  hounds,  and  took  some  fool's  leap  or  other 
that  did  for  the  horse  at  once.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that, 
I  should  have  paid  you  a  hundred  pounds  this  morning." 

The  Squire  had  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  was 
staring  at  his  son  in  amazement,  not  being  sufficiently 
quiek  of  brain  to  form  a  probable  guess  as  to  what  could 
have  caused  so  strange  an  inversion  of  the  paternal  and 
filial  relations  as  this  proposition  of  his  son  to  pay  him  a 
hundred  pounds. 

"  The  truth  is,  sir — I'm  very   sorry — I  was   quite   to 

the  hotirs  upon  the  bell,  or  signified  by  its  gestures  that  the  clock  was 
about  to  strike. 

1  I.e. ,  seized  the  tenants'  property  in  payment  for  the  rent  due. 

*  Pounds. 


SILAS  MARKER  89 

blame,"  said  Godfrey.  "Fowler  did  pay  that  hundred 
pounds.  Pie  paid  it  to  me,  when  I  was  over  there  one  day 
last  month.  And  Dunsey  bothered  me  for  the  money,  and 
I  let  him  have  it,  because  I  hoped  I  should  be  able  to  pay 
it  you  before  this." 

The  Squire  was  purple  with  anger  before  his  son  had 
done  speaking,  and  found  utterance  difficult.  "  You  let 
Dunsey  have  it,  sir  ?  And  how  long  have  you  been  so 
thick  with  Dunsey  that  you  must  collogue l  with  him  to 
embezzle  my  money  ?  Are  you  turning  out  a  scamp  ?  I 
tell  you  I  won't  have  it.  I'll  turn  the  whole  pack  of  you 
out  of  the  house  together,  and  marry  again.  I'd  have  you 
to  remember,  sir,  my  property's  got  no  entail 2  on  it ; — 
since  my  grandfather's  time  the  Casses  can  do  as  they  like 
with  their  land.  Remember  that,  sir.  Let  Dunsey  have 
the  money  !  Why  should  you  let  Dunsey  have  the  money  ? 
There's  some  lie  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"  There's  no  lie,  sir,"  said  Godfrey.  "I  wouldn't  have 
spent  the  money  myself,  but  Dunsey  bothered  me,  and  I 
was  a  fool,  and  let  him  have  it.  But  I  meant  to  pay  it, 
whether  he  did  or  not.  That's  the  whole  story.  I  never 
meant  to  embezzle  money,  and  I'm  not  the  man  to  do  it. 
You  never  knew  me  do  a  dishonest  trick,  sir." 

"  AVhere's  Dunsey,  then  ?  What  do  you  stand  talking 
there  for  ?  Go  and  fetch  Dunsey,  as  I  tell  you,  and  let 
him  give  account  of  what  he  wanted  the  money  for,  and 
what  he's  done  with  it.  He  shall  repent  it.  I'll  turn  him 
out.  I  said  I  would,  and  I'll  do  it.  He  shan't  brave  me. 
Go  and  fetch  him." 

''Dunsey  isn't  come  back,  sir." 

"  What !  did  he  break  his  own  neck,  then  ? "  said  the 
Squire,  with  some  disgust  at  the  idea  that,  in  that  case,  he 
could  not  fulfil  his  threat. 

1  Plot. 

8  A  provision  of  English  law  by  means  of  which  property  (so  restricted) 
descends  according  to  a  certain  prescribed  order  and  cannot  be  given 
away  by  will. 


90  SILAS  MARNER 

"  No,  he  wasn't  hurt,  I  believe,  for  the  horse  was  found 
dead,  and  Dunsey  must  have  walked  off.  I  daresay  we 
shall  see  him  again  by- and- by.  I  don't  know  where  he 
is." 

"And  what  must  you  be  letting  him  have  my  money 
for  ?  Answer  me  that/'  said  the  Squire,  attacking  God- 
frey again,  since  Dunsey  was  not  within  reach. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  know,"  said  Godfrey,  hesitatingly. 
That  was  a  feeble  evasion,  but  Godfrey  was  not  fond  of 
lying,  and,  not  being  sufficiently  aware  that  no  sort  of 
duplicity  can  long  nourish  without  the  help  of  vocal 
falsehoods,  he  was  quite  unprepared  with  invented  mo- 
tives. 

"You  don't  know  ?  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  sir.  You've 
been  up  to  some  trick,  and  you've  been  bribing  him  not  to 
tell,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  sudden  acuteness  which 
startled  Godfrey,  who  felt  his  heart  beat  violently  at  the 
nearness  of  his  father's  guess.  The  sudden  alarm  pushed 
him  on  to  take  the  next  step — a  very  slight  impulse  suf- 
fices for  that  on  a  downward  road. 

"Why,  sir,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  careless  ease, 
"it  was  a  little  affair  between  me  and  Dunsey;  it's  no 
matter  to  anybody  else.  It's  hardly  worth  while  to  pry 
into  young  men's  fooleries  :  it  wouldn't  have  made  any  dif- 
ference to  you,  sir,  if  I'd  not  had  the  bad  luck  to  lose 
Wildfire.  I  should  have  paid  you  the  money." 

"Fooleries!  Pshaw!  it's  time  you'd  done  with  fooler- 
ies. And  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  you  must  ha'  done  with 
'em,"  said  the  Squire,  frowning  and  casting  an  angry 
glance  at  his  son.  "  Your  goings-on  are  not  what  I  shall 
find  money  for  any  longer.  There's  my  grandfather  had 
his  stables  full  o'  horses,  and  kept  a  good  house,  too,  and 
in  worse  times,  by  what  I  can  make  out ;  and  so  might  I, 
if  I  hadn't  four  good-for-nothing  fellows  to  hang  on  me 
like  horse-leeches.  I've  been  too  good  a  father  to  you  all — 
that's  what  it  is.  But  I  shall  pull  up,  sir." 

Godfrey  was  silent.     He  was  not  likely  to  be  very  pen- 


SILAS  MARNER  91 

etrating  in  his  judgments,  but  he  had  always  had  a  sense 
that  his  father's  indulgence  had  not  been  kindness,  and 
had  had  a  vague  longing  for  some  discipline  that  would 
have  checked  his  own  errant  weakness  and  helped  his 
better  will.  The  Squire  ate  his  bread  and  meat  hastily, 
took  a  deep  draught  of  ale,  then  turned  his  chair  from 
the  table,  and  began  to  speak  again. 

"  It'll  be  all  the  worse  for  you,  you  know — you'd  need 
try  and  help  me  keep  things  together." 

"  Well,  sir,  I've  often  offered  to  take  the  manage- 
ment of  things,  but  you  know  you've  taken  it  ill  always, 
and  seemed  to  think  I  wanted  to  push  you  out  of  your 
place." 

"  I  know  nothing  o'  your  offering  or  o'  my  taking  it 
ill,"  said  the  Squire,  whose  memory  consisted  in  certain 
strong  impressions  unmodified  by  detail ;  "  but  I  know, 
one  while  you  seemed  to  be  thinking  o'  marrying,  and  I 
didn't  offer  to  put  any  obstacles  in  your  way,  as  some 
fathers  would.  I'd  as  lieve  you  married  Lammeter's 
daughter  as  anybody.  I  suppose,  if  I'd  said  you  nay, 
you'd  ha'  kept  on  with  it ;  but,  for  want  o'  contradiction, 
you've  changed  your  mind.  You're  a  shilly-shally l  fellow  : 
you  take  after  your  poor  mother.  She  never  had  a  will  of 
her  own  ;  a  woman  has  no  call  for  one,  if  she's  got  a 
proper  man  for  her  husband.  But  your  wife  had  need 
have  one,  for  you  hardly  know  your  own  mind  enough  to 
make  both  your  legs  walk  one  way.  The  lass  hasn't  said 
downright  she  won't  have  you,  has  she  r" 

"  No,"  said  Godfrey,  feeling  very  hot  and  uncomfort- 
able ;  "  but  I  don't  think  she  will." 

"  Think  !  why  haven't  you  the  courage  to  ask  her  ? 
Do  you  stick  to  it,  you  want  to  have  her — that's  the 
thing?" 

"  There's  no  other  woman  I  want  to  marry,"  said  God- 
frey, evasively. 

"Well,  then,  let  me  make  the  offer  for  you,  that's  all, 

1  A  reduplication  of  "  shall  I  ?''  indicating  doubt  or  hesitation. 


92  SILAS  MARNER 

if  you  haven't  the  pluck  to  do  it  yourself.  Lammetel 
isn't  likely  to  be  loath  for  his  daughter  to  marry  into  my 
family,  I  should  think.  And  as  for  the  pretty  lass,  she 
wouldn't  have  her  cousin — and  there's  nobody  else,  as  I 
see,  could  ha'  stood  in  your  way." 

"  I'd  rather  let  it  be,  please  sir,  at  present,"  said  God- 
frey, in  alarm.  "  I  think  she's  a  little  offended  with  me 
just  now,  and  I  should  like  to  speak  for  myself.  A  man 
must  manage  these  things  for  himself." 

"  Well,  speak,  then,  and  manage  it,  and  see  if  you  can't 
turn  over  a  new  leaf.  That's  what  a  man  must  do  when 
he  thinks  o'  marrying." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  think  of  it  at  present,  sir.  You 
wouldn't  like  to  settle  me  on  one  of  the  farms,  I  suppose, 
and  I  don't  think  she'd  come  to  live  in  this  house  with  all 
my  brothers.  It's  a  different  sort  of  life  to  what  she's  been 
used  to." 

"Not  come  to  live  in  this  house?  Don't  tell  me.  You 
ask  her,  that's  all,"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  short,  scornful 
laugh. 

"  I'd  rather  let  the  thing  be,  at  present,  sir,"  said  God- 
frey. "  1  hope  you  won't  try  to  hurry  it  on  by  saying 
anything." 

"  I  shall  do  what  I  choose,"  said  the  Squire,  "  and  I 
shall  let  you  know  I'm  master  ;  else  you  may  turn  out,  and 
find  an  estate  to  drop  into  somewhere  else.  Go  out  and  tell 
Winthrop  not  to  go  to  Cox's,  but  wait  for  me.  And  tell 
'em  to  get  my  horse  saddled.  And  stop  :  look  out  and  get 
that  hack  o'  Dunsey's  sold,  and  hand  me  the  money,  will 
you  ?  He'll  keep  no  more  hacks  at  my  expense.  And  if 
you  know  where  he's  sneaking — I  daresay  you  do — you  may 
tell  him  to  spare  himself  the  journey  o'  coming  back  home. 
Let  him  turn  ostler,  and  keep  himself.  He  shan't  hang 
on  me  any  more." 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is  ;  and  if  1  did,  it  isn't  my 
place  to  tell  him  to  keep  away/'  said  Godfrey,  moving 
towards  the  door. 


SILAS  MARNER  93 

"  Confound  it,  sir,  don't  stay  arguing,  but  go  and  order 
my  horse/'  said  the  Squire,  taking  up  a  pipe. 

Godfrey  left  the  room,  hardly  knowing  whether  he  were 
more  relieved  by  the  sense  that  the  interview  was  ended 
without  having  made  any  change  in  his  position,  or  more 
uneasy  that  he  had  entangled  himself  still  further  in  pre- 
varication and  deceit.  What  had  passed  about  his  propos- 
ing to  Nancy  had  raised  a  new  alarm,  lest  by  some  after- 
dinner  words  of  his  father's  to  Mr.  Lammeter  he  should 
be  thrown  into  the  embarrassment  of  being  obliged  abso- 
lutely to  decline  her  when  she  seemed  to  be  within  his 
reach.  He  fled  to  his  usual  refuge,  that  of  hoping  for 
some  unforeseen  turn  of  fortune,  some  favourable  chance 
which  would  save  him  from  unpleasant  consequences — 
perhaps  even  justify  his  insincerity  by  manifesting  its  pru- 
dence. 

In  this  point  of  trusting  to  some  throw  of  fortune's  dice, 
Godfrey  can  hardly  be  called  old-fashioned.  Favourable 
Chance  is  the  god  of  all  men  who  follow  their  own  devices 
instead  of  obeying  a  law  they  believe  in.  Let  even  a  pol- 
ished man  of  these  days  get  into  a  position  he  is  ashamed 
to  avow,  and  his  mind  will  be  bent  on  all  the  possible 
issues  that  may  deliver  him  from  the  calculable  results  of 
that  position.  Let  him  live  outside  his  income,  or  shirk 
the  resolute  honest  work  that  brings  wages,  and  he  will 
presently  find  himself  dreaming  of  a  possible  benefactor,  a 
possible  simpleton  who  may  be  cajoled  into  using  his  inter- 
est, a  possible  state  of  mind  in  some  possible  person  not  yet 
forthcoming.  Let  him  neglect  the  responsibilities  of  his 
office,  and  he  will  inevitably  anchor  himself  on  the  chance, 
that  the  thing  left  undone  may  turn  out  not  to  be  of  the 
supposed  importance.  Let  him  betray  his  friend's  confi- 
dence, and  he  will  adore  that  same  cunning  complexity 
called  Chance,  which  gives  him  the  hope  that  his  friend 
will  never  know.  Let  him  forsake  a  decent  craft  that  he 
may  pursue  the  gentilities  of  a  profession  to  which  nature 
never  called  him,  and  his  religion  will  infallibly  be  the 


94  8ILA8  MARNER 

worship  of  blessed  Chance,  which  he  will  believe  in  as  the 
mighty  creator  of  success.  The  evil  principle  deprecated 
in  that  religion,  is  the  orderly  sequence  by  which  the  seed 
brings  forth  a  crop  after  its  kind.1 

1  The  final  paragraph  furnishes  an  excellent  example  of  George 
Eliot's  moralizing.  See  INTRODUCTION. 

Does  George  Eliot  intend  to  put  the  reader  out  of  sympathy  with 
Godfrey  Cass  ?  What  distinction  do  we  feel  there  is  between  the 
squire's  character  and  his  eldest  son's  ? 


CHAPTEE  X 

JUSTICE  MALAM  was  naturally  regarded  in  Tarley  and 
Raveloe  as  a  man  of  capacious  mind,  seeing  that  he  could 
draw  much  wider  conclusions  without  evidence  than  could 
be  expected  of  his  neighbours  who  were  not  on  the  Com- 
mission of  the  Peace.1  Such  a  man  was  not  likely  to 
neglect  the  clue  of  the  tinder-box,  and  an  inquiry  was  set 
on  foot  concerning  a  pedlar,  name  unknown,  with  curly 
black  hair  and  a  foreign  complexion,  carrying  a  box  of 
cutlery  and  jewellery,  and  wearing  large  rings  in  his  ears. 
But  either  because  inquiry  was  too  slow-footed  to  over- 
take him,  or  because  the  description  applied  to  so  many 
pedlars  that  inquiry  did  not  know  how  to  choose  among 
them,  weeks  passed  away,  and  there  was  no  other  result 
concerning  the  robbery  than  a  gradual  cessation  of  the  ex- 
citement it  had  caused  in  Raveloe.  Dunstan  Cass's  ab- 
sence was  hardly  a  subject  of  remark  :  he  had  once  before 
had  a  quarrel  with  his  father,  and  had  gone  off,  nobody 
knew  whither,  to  return  at  the  end  of  six  weeks,  take  up 
his  old  quarters  unforbidden  and  swagger  as  usual.  His 
own  family,  who  equally  expected  this  issue,  with  the  sole 
difference  that  the  Squire  was  determined  this  time  to 
forbid  him  the  old  quarters,  never  mentioned  his  absence  ; 
and  when  his  uncle  Kimble  or  Mr.  Osgood  noticed  it,  the 
story  of  his  having  killed  Wildfire  and  committed  some 
offence  against  his  father  was  enough  to  prevent  surprise. 
To  connect  the  fact  of  Dunsey's  disappearance  with  that 
of  the  robbery  occurring  on  the  same  day,  lay  quite  away 
from  the  track  of  every  one's  thought—even  Godfrey's, 
who  had  better  reason  than  any  one  else  to  know  what 
1  A  board  of  police  justices  appointed  by  the  crown. 


96  SILAS  MARNER 

his  brother  was  capable  of.  He  remembered  no  mention 
of  the  weaver  between  them  since  the  time,  twelve  years 
ago,  when  it  was  their  boyish  sport  to  deride  him  ;  and, 
besides,  his  imagination  constantly  created  an  alibi1  for 
Dunstan  :  he  saw  him  continually  in  some  congenial  haunt, 
to  which  he  had  walked  off  on  leaving  Wildfire — saw  him 
sponging  on  chance  acquaintances,  and  meditating  a  re- 
turn home  to  the  old  amusement  of  tormenting  his  elder 
brother.  Even  if  any  brain  in  Eaveloe  had  put  the  said 
two  facts  together,  I  doubt  whether  a  combination  so  in- 
jurious to  the  prescriptive  respectability  of  a  family  with 
a  mural  monument2  and  venerable  tankards,  would  not 
have  been  suppressed  as  of  unsound  tendency.  But  Christ- 
mas puddings,  brawn,3  and  abundance  of  spirituous  liquors, 
throwing  the  mental  originality  into  the  channel  of  night- 
mare, are  great  preservatives  against  a  dangerous  spon- 
taneity of  waking  thought.4 

When  the  robbery  was  talked  of  at  the  Eainbow  and 
elsewhere,  in  good  company,  the  balance  continued  to 
waver  between  the  rational  explanation  founded  on  the 
tinder-box,  and  the  theory  of  an  impenetrable  mystery 
that  mocked  investigation.  The  advocates  of  the  tinder- 
box-and-pedlar  view  considered  the  other  side  a  muddle- 
headed  and  credulous  set,  who,  because  they  themselves 
were  wall-eyed,3  supposed  everybody  else  to  have  the  same 
blank  outlook  ;  and  the  adherents  of  the  inexplicable  more 
than  hinted  that  their  antagonists  were  animals  inclined 
to  crow  before  they  had  found  any  corn — mere  skimming- 
dishes  in  point  of  depth — whose  clear-sightedness  consisted 
in  supposing  there  was  nothing  behind  a  barn-door  because 

1  The  plea  of  having  been  elsewhere  when  the  crime  was  com- 
mitted. 

*  A  tablet  or  monument  in  the  wall  of  a  church. 
8  The  fleshy  part  of  pork  or  boar's  meat. 

4  Note   that  the  ponderous  diction   of  the  last  two  sentences  pro- 
duces a  Immorous  effect. 

5  An  eye  in  which  the  iris  is  light  colored  or  white  is  called  a  wall 
eye;  hence  "  wall-eyed,"  defective  in  eyesight. 


SILAS  MARNER  97 

they  couldn't  see  through  it ;  so  that,  though  their  con- 
troversy did  not  serve  to  elicit  the  fact  concerning  the  rob- 
bery, it  elicited  some  true  opinions  of  collateral  importance. 

But  while  poor  Silas's  loss  served  thus  to  brush  the  slow 
current  of  Eaveloe  conversation,  Silas  himself  was  feeling 
the  withering  desolation  of  that  bereavement  about  which 
his  neighbours  were  arguing  at  their  ease.  To  any  one 
who  had  observed  him  before  he  lost  his  gold,  it  might 
have  seemed  that  so  withered  and  shrunken  a  life  as  his 
could  hardly  be  susceptible  of  a  bruise,  could  hardly  en- 
dure any  subtraction  but  such  as  would  put  an  end  to  it 
altogether.  But  in  reality  it  had  been  an  eager  life,  filled 
with  immediate  purpose  which  fenced  him  in  from  the 
wide,  cheerless  unknown.  It  had  been  a  clinging  life ; 
and  though  the  object  round  which  its  fibres  had  clung 
was  a  dead  disrupted  thing,  it  satisfied  the  need  for  cling- 
ing. But  now  the  fence  was  broken  down — the  support 
was  snatched  away.  Marner's  thoughts  could  no  longer 
move  in  their  old  round,  and  were  baffled  by  a  blank  like 
that  which  meets  a  plodding  ant  when  the  earth  has 
broken  away  on  its  homeward  path.  The  loom  was  there, 
and  the  weaving,  and  the  growing  pattern  in  the  cloth  ; 
but  the  bright  treasure  in  the  hole  under  his  feet  was 
gone  ;  the  prospect  of  handling  and  counting  it  was  gone  : 
the  evening  had  no  phantasm  of  delight  to  still  the  poor 
soul's  craving.  The  thought  of  the  money  he  would  get 
by  his  actual  work  could  bring  no  joy,  for  its  meagre 
image  was  only  a  fresh  reminder  of  his  loss  ;  and  hope  was 
too  heavily  crushed  by  the  sudden  blow,  for  his  imagina- 
tion to  dwell  on  the  growth  of  a  new  hoard  from  that 
small  beginning. 

He  filled  up  the  blank  with  grief.  As  he  sat  weaving, 
he  every  now  and  then  moaned  low,  like  one  in  pain  :  it 
was  the  sign  that  his  thoughts  had  come  round  again  to 
the  sudden  chasm — to  the  empty  evening  time.  And  all 
the  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  loneliness  by  his  dull  fire,  he 
7eaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  his  head  with 
7 


98  SILAS  MARNER 

his  hands,  and  moaned  very  low — not  as  one  who  seeks  to 
be  heard. 

And  yet  he  was  not  utterly  forsaken  in  his  trouble.  The 
repulsion  Marner  had  always  created  in  his  neighbours  was 
partly  dissipated  by  the  new  light  in  which  this  misfortune 
had  shown  him.  Instead  of  a  man  who  had  more  cun- 
ning than  honest  folks  could  come  by,  and,  what  was  worse, 
had  not  the  inclination  to  use  that  cunning  in  a  neigh- 
bourly way,  it  was  now  apparent  that  Silas  had  not  cun- 
ning enough  to  keep  his  own.  He  was  generally  spoken 
of  as  a  "  poor  mushed  creatur  ; "  and  that  avoidance  of  his 
neighbours,  which  had  before  been  referred  to  his  ill-will 
and  to  a  probable  addiction  to  worse  company,  was  now 
considered  mere  craziness. 

This  change  to  a  kindlier  feeling  was  shown  in  various 
ways.  The  odour  of  Christmas  cooking  being  on  the  wind, 
it  was  the  season  when  superfluous  pork  and  black  pud- 
dings l  are  suggestive  of  charity  in  well-to-do  families  ;  and 
Silas's  misfortune  had  brought  him  uppermost  in  the  mem- 
ory of  housekeepers  like  Mrs.  Osgood.  Mr.  Crackenthorp, 
too,  while  he  admonished  Silas  that  his  money  had  prob- 
ably been  taken  from  him  because  he  thought  too  much  of 
it  and  never  came  to  church,  enforced  the  doctrine  by  a 
present  of  pigs'  pettitoes,2  well  calculated  to  dissipate  un- 
founded prejudices  against  the  clerical  character.  Neigh- 
bours who  had  nothing  but  verbal  consolation  to  give 
showed  a  disposition  not  only  to  greet  Silas  and  discuss  his 
misfortune  at  some  length  when  they  encountered  him  in 
the  village,  but  also  to  take  the  trouble  of  calling  at  his 
cottage  and  getting  him  to  repeat  all  the  details  on  the 
very  spot ;  and  then  they  would  try  to  cheer  him  by  say- 
ing, "  Well,  Master  Marner,  you're  no  worse  off  nor  other 
poor  folks,  after  all ;  and  if  you  was  to  be  crippled,  the 
parish  'ud  give  you  a  'lowance." 

I  suppose  one  reason  why  we  are  seldom  able  to  comfort 
our  neighbours  with  our  words  is  that  our  goodwill  gets 
•  A  kind  of  sausage.  s  Pigs'  feet. 


SILAS  MARNER  99 

adulterated,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  before  it  can  pass  OUT 
lips.  We  can  send  black  puddings  and  pettitoes,  without 
giving  them  a  flavour  of  our  own  egoism  ; l  but  language  is 
a  stream  that  is  almost  sure  to  smack  of  a  mingled  soil. 
There  was  a  fair  proportion  of  kindness  in  Raveloe  ;  but 
it  was  often  of  a  beery  and  bungling  sort,  and  took  the 
shape  least  allied  to  the  complimentary  and  hypocritical. 

Mr.  Macey,  for  example,  coming  one  evening  expressly 
to  let  Silas  know  that  recent  events  had  given  him  the  ad- 
vantage of  standing  more  favourably  in  the  opinion  of  a 
man  whose  judgment  was  not  formed  lightly,  opened  the 
conversation  by  saying,  as  soon  as  he  had  seated  himself  and 
adjusted  his  thumbs— 

"  Come,  Master  Marner,  why,  you've  no  call  to  sit 
a-moaning.  You're  a  deal  better  off  to  ha'  lost  your  money, 
nor  to  ha'  kep  it  by  foul  means.  I  used  to  think,  when 
you  first  come  into  these  parts,  as  you  were  no  better  nor 
you  should  be  ;  you  were  younger  a  deal  than  what  you  are 
now  ;  but  you  were  allays  a  staring,  white-faced  creatur, 
partly  like  a  bald-faced  calf,  as  I  may  say.  But  there's  no 
knowing  :  it  isn't  every  queer-looksed  thing  as  Old  Harry's 
had  the  making  of — I  mean,  speaking  o'  toads  and  such  ; 
for  they're  often  harmless,  and  useful  against  varmin. 
And  it's  pretty  much  the  same  wi'  you,  as  fur  as  I  can  see. 
Though  as  to  the  yarbs  and  stuff  to  cure  the  breathing,  if 
you  brought  that  sort  o'  knowledge  from  distant  parts,  you 
might  ha'  been  a  bit  freer  of  it.  And  if  the  knowledge 
wasn't  well  come  by,  why,  you  might  haj  made  up  for  it  by 
coming  to  church  reg'lar  ;  for  as  for  the  children  as  the 
Wise  Woman  charmed,  I've  been  at  the  christening  of  'em 
again  and  again,  and  they  took  the  water  just  as  well. 
And  that's  reasonable ;  for  if  Old  Harry's  a  mind  to  do  a 
bit  o'  kindness  for  a  holiday,  like,  who's  got  anything 
against  it  ?  That's  my  thinking  ;  and  I've  been  clerk  o' 
this  parish  forty  year,  and  I  know,  when  the  parson  and 

i  Invariably  misused  by  George  Eliot  for  egotism.  What  is  the  dis- 
tinction between  tlie  two  words  ? 


100  SILAS  MARNER 

me  does  the  cussing  of  a  Ash  Wednesday,  there's  no  cussing 
o'  folks  as  have  a  mind  to  be  cured  without  a  doctor,  let 
Kimble  say  what  he  will.  And  so,  Master  Marner,  as  I 
was  saying — for  there's  windings  i'  things  as  they  may 
carry  you  to  the  fur  end  o'  the  prayer-book  afore  you  get 
back  to  'em — my  advice  is,  as  you  keep  up  your  sperrits  ; 
for  as  for  thinking  you're  a  deep  un,  and  ha'  got  more  in- 
side you  nor  'ull  bear  daylight,  I'm  not  o'  that  opinion  at 
all,  and  so  I  tell  the  neighbours.  For,  says  I,  you  talk  o' 
Master  Marner  making  out  a  tale — why,  it's  nonsense,  that 
is  :  it  'ud  take  a  'cute  man  to  make  a  tale  like  that ;  and, 
says  I,  he  looked  as  scared  as  a  rabbit." 

During  this  discursive  address  Silas  had  continued  mo- 
tionless in  his  previous  attitude,  leaning  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  and  pressing  his  hands  against  his  head.  Mr.  Ma- 
cey,  not  doubting  that  he  had  been  listened  to,  paused,  in 
the  expectation  of  some  appreciatory  reply,  but  Marner  re- 
mained silent.  He  had  a  sense  that  the  old  man  meant  to 
be  good-natured  and  neighbourly  ;  but  the  kindness  fell  on 
him  as  sunshine  falls  on  the  wretched — he  had  no  heart  to 
taste  it,  and  felt  that  it  was  very  far  off  him. 

' '  Come,  Master  Marner,  have  you  got  nothing  to  say  to 
that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Macey  at  last,  with  a  slight  accent  of  im- 
patience. 

"  Oh,"  said  Marner,  slowly,  shaking  his  head  between 
his  hands,  "  I  thank  you — thank  you — kindly." 

"Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure  :  I  thought  you  would,"  said  Mr. 
Macey ;  "and  my  advice  is — have  you  got  a  Sunday  suit  ?" 

1  ( No,"  said  Marner. 

"  I  doubted  it  was  so,"  said  Mr.  Macey.  "  Now,  let  me 
advise  you  to  get  a  Sunday  suit :  there's  Tookey,  he's  a 
poor  creatur,  but  he's  got  my  tailoring  business,  and  some 
o'  my  money  in  it,  and  he  shall  make  a  suit  at  a  low  price, 
and  give  you  trust,  and  then  you  can  come  to  church,  and 
be  a  bit  neighbourly.  Why,  you've  never  beared  me  say 
'Amen'  since  you  come  into  these  parts,  and  I  recommend 
you  to  lose  no  time,  for  it'll  be  poor  work  when  Tookey 


SILAS  MARNER  101 

has  it  all  to  himself,  for  I  mayn't  be  equil  to  stand  i'  the 
desk  at  all,  come  another  winter."  Here  Mr.  Macey 
paused,  perhaps  expecting  some  sign  of  emotion  in  his 
hearer  ;  but  not  observing  any,  he  went  on.  "  And  as  for 
the  money  for  the  suit  o'  clothes,  why,  you  get  a  matter  of 
a  pound  a-week  at  your  weaving,  Master  Marner,  and 
you're  a  young  man,  eh,  for  all  you  look  so  mushed. 
Why,  you  couldn't  ha'  been  five-and-twenty  when  you 
come  into  these  parts,  eh  ?  " 

Silas  started  a  little  at  the  change  to  a  questioning  tone, 
and  answered  mildly,  "  I  don't  know  ;  I  can't  rightly  say 
— it's  a  long  while  since." 

After  receiving  such  an  answer  as  this,  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing that  Mr.  Macey  observed,  later  on  in  the  evening  at 
the  Rainbow,  that  Marner's  head  was  "all  of  a  muddle," 
and  that  it  was  to  be  doubted  if  he  ever  knew  when  Sun- 
day came  round,  which  showed  him  a  worse  heathen  than 
many  a  dog. 

Another  of  Silas's  comforters,  besides  Mr.  Macey,  came 
to  him  with  a  mind  highly  charged  on  the  same  topic. 
This  was  Mrs.  Winthrop,  the  wheelwright's  wife.  The 
inhabitants  of  Raveloe  were  not  severely  regular  in  their 
church-going,  and  perhaps  there  was  hardly  a  person  in 
the  parish  who  would  not  have  held  that  to  go  to  church 
every  Sunday  in  the  calendar  would  have  shown  a  greedy 
desire  to  stand  well  with  Heaven,  and  get  an  undue  advan- 
tage over  their  neighbours — a  wish  to  be  better  than  the 
"  common  run,"  that  would  have  implied  a  reflection  on 
those  who  had  had  godfathers  and  godmothers  as  well  as 
themselves,  and  had  an  equal  right  to  the  burying-service. 
At  the  same  time,  it  was  understood  to  be  requisite  for  all 
who  were  not  household  servants,  or  young  men,  to  take 
the  sacrament  at  one  of  the  great  festivals  :  *  Squire  Cass 
himself  took  it  on  Christmas-day  ;  while  those  who  were 
held  to  be  "  good-livers "  went  to  church  with  greater, 
though  still  with  moderate,  frequency. 

1  The  church  festivals  of  Christmas,  Easter,  and  Michaelmas. 


102  SILAS  MARNER 

Mrs.  Winthrop  was  one  of  these  :  she  was  in  all  respecta 
a  woman  of  scrupulous  conscience,  so  eager  for  duties  that 
life  seemed  to  offer  them  too  scantily  unless  she  rose  at 
half -past  four,  though  this  threw  a  scarcity  of  work  over 
the  more  advanced  hours  of  the  morning,  which  it  was  a 
constant  problem  with  her  to  remove.  Yet  she  had  not 
the  vixenish  temper  which  is  sometimes  supposed  to  be  a 
necessary  condition  of  such  habits  :  she  was  a  very  mild, 
patient  woman,  whose  nature  it  was  to  seek  out  all  the  sad- 
der and  more  serious  elements  of  life,  and  pasture  her  mind 
upon  them.  She  was  the  person  always  first  thought  of  in 
Eaveloe  when  there  was  illness  or  death  in  the  family, 
when  leeches l  were  to  be  applied,  or  there  was  a  sudden 
disappointment  in  a  monthly  nurse.  She  was  a  "  comfort- 
able woman" — good-looking,  fresh-complexioned,  having 
her  lips  always  slightly  screwed,  as  if  she  felt  herself  in  a 
sick-room  with  a  doctor  or  the  clergyman  present.  But  she 
was  never  whimpering ;  no  one  had  seen  her  shed  tears ; 
she  was  simply  grave  and  inclined  to  shake  her  head  and 
sigh,  almost  imperceptibly,  like  a  funereal  mourner  who  is 
not  a  relation.  It  seemed  surprising  that  Ben  Winthrop, 
who  loved  his  quart-pot  and  his  joke,  got  along  so  well 
with  Dolly ;  but  she  took  her  husband's  jokes  and  joviality 
as  patiently  as  everything  else,  considering  that  "  men 
would  be  so,"  and  viewing  the  stronger  sex  in  the  light  of 
animals  whom  it  had  pleased  Heaven  to  make  naturally 
troublesome,  like  bulls  and  turkey-cocks. 

This  good  wholesome  2  woman  could  hardly  fail  to  have 
her  mind  drawn  strongly  towards  Silas  Marner,  now  that 
he  appeared  in  the  light  of  a  sufferer  ;  and  one  Sunday 
afternoon  she  took  her  little  boy  Aaron  with  her,  and  went 
to  call  on  Silas,  carrying  in  her  hand  some  small  lard- 
cakes,  flat  paste-like  articles  much  esteemed  in  Eaveloe. 
Aaron,  an  apple-cheeked  youngster  of  seven,  with  a  clean 
starched  frill  which  looked  like  a  plate  for  the  apples, 

1  Blood  sucking  worms  much  iised  in  old  times  for  bleeding  patients 
8  Should  this  adjective  be  applied  to  persons  ? 


SILAS  MARNER  103 

needed  all  his  adventurous  curiosity  to  embolden  him 
against  the  possibility  that  the  big-eyed  weaver  might  do 
him  some  bodily  injury ;  and  his  dubiety  1  was  much  in- 
creased when,  on  arriving  at  the  Stone-pits,  they  heard  the 
mysterious  sound  of  the  loom. 

"  Ah,  it  is  as  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Winthrop,  sadly. 

They  had  to  knock  loudly  before  Silas  heard  them  ;  but 
when  he  did  come  to  the  door  he  showed  no  impatience,  as 
he  would  once  have  done,  at  a  visit  that  had  been  unasked 
for  and  unexpected.  Formerly,  his  heart  had  been  as  a 
locked  casket  with  its  treasure  inside  ;  but  now  the  casket 
was  empty,  and  the  lock  was  broken.  Left  groping  in 
darkness,  with  his  prop  utterly  gone,  Silas  had  inevitably 
a  sense,  though  a  dull  and  half -despairing  one,  that  if  any 
help  came  to  him  it  must  come  from  without ;  and  there 
was  a  slight  stirring  of  expectation  at  the  sight  of  his 
fellow-men,  a  faint  consciousness  of  dependence  on  their 
goodwill.  He  opened  the  door  wide  to  admit  Dolly,  but 
without  otherwise  returning  her  greeting  than  by  moving 
the  arm-chair  a  few  inches  as  a  sign  that  she  was  to  sit 
down  in  it.  Dolly,  as  soon  as  she  was  seated,  removed  the 
white  cloth  that  covered  her  lard-cakes,  and  said  in  her 
gravest  way — 

"  I'd  a  baking  yisterday,  Master  Marner,  and  the  lard- 
cakes  turned  out  better  nor  common,  and  Fd  ha'  asked 
you  to  accept  some,  if  you'd  thought  well.  I  don't  eat 
such  things  myself,  for  a  bit  o'  bread's  what  I  like  from 
one  year's  end  to  the  other  ;  but  men's  stomichs  are  made 
so  comical,  they  want  a  change — they  do,  I  know,  God 
help  'em." 

Dolly  sighed  gently  as  she  held  out  the  cakes  to  Silas, 
who  thanked  her  kindly  and  looked  very  close  at  them,  ab- 
sently, being  accustomed  to  look  so  at  everything  he  took 
into  his  hand — eyed  all  the  while  by  the  wondering  bright 
orbs  of  the  small  Aaron,  who  had  made  an  outwork 2  of 
his  mother's  chair,  and  was  peeping  round  from  behind  it. 
'•  State  of  doubt.  s  A  military  term. 


104  SILAS  MARNER 

" There's  letters  pricked  on  'em,"  said  Dolly.  "I  can't 
read  'em  myself,  and  there's  nobody,  not  Mr.  Macey  him- 
self, rightly  knows  what  they  mean  ;  but  they've  a  good 
meaning,  for  they're  the  same  as  is  on  the  pulpit-cloth  at 
church.  What  are  they,  Aaron,  my  dear  ?  " 

Aaron  retreated  completely  behind  his  outwork. 

"Oh  go,  that's  naughty,"  said  his  mother,  mildly. 
"  Well,  whativer  the  letters  are,  they've  a  good  meaning  ; 
and  it's  a  stamp  as  has  been  in  our  house,  Ben  says,  ever 
since  he  was  a  little  un,  and  his  mother  used  to  put  it  on 
the  cakes,  and  I've  allays  put  it  on  too  ;  for  if  there's  any 
good,  we've  need  of  it  i'  this  world." 

"It's  I.  H.  S.,"1  said  Silas,  at  which  proof  of  learning 
Aaron  peeped  round  the  chair  again. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  you  can  read  'em  off,"  said  Dolly. 
"  Ben's  read  'em  to  me  many  and  many  a  time,  but  they 
slip  out  o'  my  mind  again  ;  the  more's  the  pity,  for  they're 
good  letters,  else  they  wouldn't  be  in  the  church  ;  and  so 
I  prick  'em  on  all  the  loaves  and  all  the  cakes,  though 
sometimes  they  won't  hold,  because  o'  the  rising — for,  as  I 
said,  if  there's  any  good  to  be  got  we've  need  of  it  i'  this 
world — that  we  have  ;  and  I  hope  they'll  bring  good  to 
you,  Master  Marner,  for  it's  wi'  that  will  I  brought  you  the 
cakes  ;  and  you  see  the  letters  have  held  better  nor  com- 
mon." 

Silas  was  as  unable  to  interpret  the  letters  as  Dolly,  but 
there  was  no  possibility  of  misunderstanding  the  desire  to 
give  comfort  that  made  itself  heard  in  her  quiet  tones. 
He  said,  with  more  feeling  than  before — "  Thank  you — 
thank  you  kindly."  But  he  laid  down  the  cakes  and 
seated  himself  absently — drearily  unconscious  of  any  dis- 

1  Usually  written  I  H  S,  or  in  monogram  (as  on  altar  cloths,  church 
windows,  prayer-books,  etc.),  a  contraction  for  the  Greek  form  of  the 
word  ''Jesus."  The  contraction  came  to  be  regarded  as  an  abbrevia- 
tion for  Jesus  Hominum  SafootOT  (Jesus  Saviour  of  Men) ;  or  for  In 
Hoc  Signo  [  Vinces]  (By  this  sign  thou  shalt  conquer) ;  or  for  In  Hoc 
[Cruce]  S(dus  (In  this  cross  is  Salvation). 


SILAS  MARNER  105 

tinct  benefit  towards  which  the  cakes  and  the  letters,  or 
even  Dolly's  kindness,  could  tend  for  him. 

"  Ah,  if  there's  good  anywhere,  we've  need  of  it,"  re- 
peated Dolly,  who  did  not  lightly  forsake  a  serviceable 
phrase.  She  looked  at  Silas  pityingly  as  she  went  on. 
"  But  you  didn't  hear  the  church-bells  this  morning,  Mas- 
ter Marner  ?  I  doubt  you  didn't  know 1  it  was  Sunday. 
Living  so  lone  here,  you  lose  your  count,  I  daresay  ;  and 
then,  when  your  loom  makes  a  noise,  you  can't  hear  the 
bells,  more  partic'lar  now  the  frost  kills  the  sound." 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  I  heard  'em,"  said  Silas,  to  whom  Sunday 
bells  were  a  mere  accident  of  the  day,  and  not  part  of  its 
sacredness.  There  had  been  no  bells  in  Lantern  Yard. 

"  Dear  heart  ! "  said  Dolly,  pausing  before  she  spoke 
again.  "  But  what  a  pity  it  is  you  should  work  of  a  Sun- 
day, and  not  clean  yourself — if  you  didn't  go  to  church  ; 
for  if  you'd  a  roasting  bit,  it  might  be  as  you  couldn't  leave 
it,  being  a  lone  man.  But  there's  the  bakehus,2  if  you 
could  make  up  your  mind  to  spend  a  twopence  on  the  oven 
now  and  then — not  every  week,  in  course — I  shouldn't  like 
to  do  that  myself — you  might  carry  your  bit  o'  dinner 
there,  for  it's  nothing  but  right  to  have  a  bit  o'  summat 
hot  of  a  Sunday,  and  not  to  make  it  as  you  can't  know 
your  dinner  from  Saturday.  But  now,  upo'  Christmas- 
day,  this  blessed  Christmas  as  is  ever  coming,  if  you  was  to 
take  your  dinner  to  the  bakehus,  and  go  to  church,  and 
see  the  holly  and  the  yew,  and  hear  the  anthim,  and  then 
take  the  sacramen',3  you'd  be  a  deal  the  better,  and  you'd 
know  which  end  you  stood  on,  and  you  could  put  your 
trust  i'  Them  as  knows  better  nor  we  do,  seein'  you'd  ha' 
done  what  it  lies  on  us  all  to  do." 

Dolly's  exhortation,  which  was  an  unusually  long  ef- 

1  Idiom  of  the  dialect  for  "  doubt  if  you  knew." 

» A  dialectic  form  of  "  bakehouse,"  a  place  for  public  cooking.  It 
is  still  common  in  parts  of  Europe  to  carry  food  to  be  cooked  at  a  public 
oven. 

3  Of  communion. 


106  SILAS  MARNER 

fort  of  speech  for  her,  was  uttered  in  the  soothing  persua 
sive  tone  with  which  she  would  have  tried  to  prevail  on  a 
sick  man  to  take  his  medicine,  or  a  basin  of  gruel  for 
which  he  had  no  appetite.  Silas  had  never  before  been 
closely  urged  on  the  point  of  his  absence  from  church, 
which  had  only  been  thought  of  as  a  part  of  his  general 
queerness ;  and  he  was  too  direct  and  simple  to  evade 
Dolly's  appeal. 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  said,  "  I  know  nothing  o'  church.  Fve 
never  been  to  church/' 

"  No  ! "  said  Dolly,  in  a  low  tone  of  wonderment. 
Then  bethinking  herself  of  Silas's  advent  from  an  un- 
known country,  she  said,  "  Could  it  ha'  been  as  they'd  no 
church  where  you  was  born  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively,  sitting  in  his  usual 
posture  of  leaning  on  his  knees,  and  supporting  his  head. 
"  There  was  churches — a  many — it  was  a  big  town.  But 
I  knew  nothing  of  'em — I  went  to  chapel."1 

Dolly  was  much  puzzled  at  this  new  word,  but  she  was 
rather  afraid  of  inquiring  further,  lest  "  chapel  "  might 
mean  some  haunt  of  wickedness.  After  a  little  thought, 
she  said — 

"  Well,  Master  Marner,  it's  niver  too  late  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf,  and  if  you've  niver  had  no  church,  there's  no 
telling  the  good  it  '11  do  you.  For  I  feel  so  set  up  and 
comfortable  as  niver  was,  when  I've  been  and  heard  the 
prayers,  and  the  singing  to  the  praise  and  glory  o'  God,  as 
Mr.  Macey  gives  out — and  Mr.  Crackenthorp  saying  good 
words,  and  more  partic'lar  on  Sacramen'  Day ;  and  if  a 
bit  o'  trouble  comes,  I  feel  as  I  can  put  up  wi'  it,  for  I've 
looked  for  help  i'  the  right  quarter,  and  gev  myself  up  to 
Them  as  we  must  all  give  ourselves  up  to  at  the  last ;  and 
if  we  'n  done  our  part,  it  isn't  to  be  believed  as  Them  as 
are  above  us  'ull  be  worse  nor  we  are,  and  come  short  o' 
Their'n." 

1  The  dissenting  churches  (see  note  2,  p.  19)  were  called  chapels. 
Perhaps  the  American  word  "  meeting-house  "  is  an  equivalent  term. 


SILAS  MARNER  107 

Poor  Dolly's  exposition  of  her  simple  Eaveloe  theology1 
fell  rather  unmeaningly  on  Silas's  ears,  for  there  was  no 
word  in  it  that  could  rouse  a  memory  of  what  he  had 
known  as  religion,1  and  his  comprehension  was  quite  baffled 
by  the  plural  pronoun,  which  was  no  heresy 2  of  Dolly's, 
but  only  her  way  of  avoiding  a  presumptuous  familiarity. 
He  remained  silent,  not  feeling  inclined  to  assent  to  the 
part  of  Dolly's  speech  which  he  fully  understood — her  rec- 
ommendation that  he  should  go  to  church.  Indeed, 
Silas  was  so  unaccustomed  to  talk  beyond  the  brief  ques- 
tions and  answers  necessary  for  the  transaction  of  his  sim- 
ple business,  that  words  did  not  easily  come  to  him  with- 
out the  urgency  of  a  distinct  purpose. 

But  now,  little  Aaron,  having  become  used  to  the  weav- 
er's awful  presence,  had  advanced  to  his  mother's  side,  and 
Silas,  seeming  to  notice  him  for  the  first  time,  tried  to  re- 
turn Dolly's  signs  of  goodwill  by  offering  the  lad  a  bit  of 
lard-cake.  Aaron  shrank  back  a  little,  and  rubbed  his 
head  against  his  mother's  shoulder,  but  still  thought  the 
piece  of  cake  worth  the  risk  of  putting  his  hand  out  for  it. 

"  Oh,  for  shame,  Aaron,"  said  his  mother,  taking  him 
on  her  lap,  however  ;  "  why,  you  don't  want  cake  again 
yet  awhile.  He's  wonderful  hearty,"  she  went  on,  with  a 
little  sigh — "  that  he  is,  God  knows.  He's  my  youngest, 
and  we  spoil  him  sadly,  for  either  me  or  the  father  must 
allays  hev  him  in  our  sight — that  we  must." 

She  stroked  Aaron's  brown  head,  and  thought  it  must 
do  Master  Marner  good  to  see  such  a  "  pictur  of  a  child." 
But  Marner,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  saw  the  neat- 
featured  rosy  face  as  a  mere  dim  round,  with  two  dark 
spots  in  it. 

"  And  he's  got  a  voice  like  a  bird — you  wouldn't  think," 
Dolly  went  on  ;  "  he  can  sing  a  Christmas  carril  as  his 
father's  taught  him  ;  and  I  take  it  for  a  token  as  he'll  come 

1  Explain  the  distinction  in  meaning  between  "theology"  and  "re- 
ligion." 

'A  What  is  the  exact  meaning  of  the  word  ? 


108  81  LAS  MARNER 

to  good,  as  he  can  learn  the  good  tunes  so  quick.  Come, 
Aaron,  stan'  up  and  sing  the  carril  to  Master  Marner, 
come." 

Aaron  replied  by  rubbing  his  forehead  against  his  moth- 
er's shoulder. 

"  Oh,  that's  naughty,"  said  Dolly,  gently.  "  Stan*  np, 
when  mother  tells  you,  and  let  me  hold  the  cake  till  you've 
done." 

Aaron  was  not  indisposed  to  display  his  talents,  even  to 
an  ogre,  under  protecting  circumstances  ;  and  after  a  few 
more  signs  of  coyness,  consisting  chiefly  in  rubbing  the 
backs  of  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  then  peeping  between 
them  at  Master  Marner,  to  see  if  he  looked  anxious  for  the 
"  carril,"  he  at  length  allowed  his  head  to  be  duly  adjusted, 
and  standing  behind  the  table,  which  let  him  appear  above 
it  only  as  far  as  his  broad  frill,  so  that  he  looked  like  a 
cherubic  head  untroubled  with  a  body,  he  began  with  a 
clear  chirp,  and  in  a  melody  that  had  the  rhythm  of  an  in- 
dustrious hammer — 

"  God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen, 

Let  nothing  you  dismay, 
For  Jesus  Christ  our  Saviour 
Was  born  on  Christmas-day." ' 

Dolly  listened  with  a  devout  look,  glancing  at  Marner  in 
some  confidence  that  this  strain  would  help  to  allure  him 
to  church. 

"  That's  Christmas  music,"  she  said,  when  Aaron  had 
ended,  and  had  secured  his  piece  of  cake  again.  "  There's 
no  other  music  equil  to  the  Christmas  music — '  Hark  the 
erol2  angils  sing/  And  you  may  judge  what  it  is  at 
church,  Master  Marner,  with  the  bassoon  and  the  voices, 
as  you  can't  help  thinking  you've  got  to  a  better  place 

1  One  of  the  best-known  of  the  English  Christmas  carols,  sung  to  a 
fine  old  melody. 

*  Herald — an  example  of  the  common  English  error  of  dropping  the 
initial  li. 


SILAS  MARNER  109 

a'ready — for  I  wouldn't  speak  ill  o'  this  world,  seeing  as 
Them  put  us  in  it  as  knows  best — but  what  wi'  the  drink, 
and  the  quarrelling,  and  the  bad  illnesses,  and  the  hard  dy- 
ing, as  I've  seen  times  and  times,  one's  thankful  to  hear  of 
a  better.  The  boy  sings  pretty,  don't  he,  Master  Mar- 
ner ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Silas,  absently,  "very  pretty." 

The  Christmas  carol,  with  its  hammer-like  rhythm,  had 
fallen  on  his  ears  as  strange  music,  quite  unlike  a  hymn, 
and  could  have  none  of  the  effect  Dolly  contemplated. 
But  he  wanted  to  show  her  that  he  was  grateful,  and  the 
only  mode  that  occurred  to  him  was  to  offer  Aaron  a  bit 
more  cake. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  hold- 
ing down  Aaron's  willing  hands.  "  We  must  be  going 
home  now.  And  so  I  wish  you  good-bye,  Master  Marner  ; 
and  if  you  ever  feel  anyways  bad  in  your  inside,  as  you  can't 
fend l  for  yourself,  I'll  come  and  clean  up  for  you,  and  get 
you  a  bit  o'  victual,  and  willing.  But  I  beg  and  pray  of 
you  to  leave  off  weaving  of  a  Sunday,  for  it's  bad  for  soul 
and  body — and  the  money  as  comes  i'  that  way  'ull  be  a 
bad  bed  to  lie  down  on  at  the  last,  if  it  doesn't  fly  away, 
nobody  knows  where,  like  the  white  frost.  And  you'll 
excuse  me  being  that  free  with  you,  Master  Marner,  for  I 
wish  you  well — I  do.  Make  your  bow,  Aaron." 

Silas  said  "Good-bye,  and  thank  you  kindly,"  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  Dolly,  but  he  couldn't  help  feeling  re- 
lieved when  she  was  gone — relieved  that  he  might  weave 
again  and  moan  at  his  ease.  Her  simple  view  of  life  and 
its  comforts,  by  which  she  had  tried  to  cheer  him,  was 
only  like  a  report  of  unknown  objects,  which  his  imagina- 
tion could  not  fashion.  The  fountains  of  human  love  and 
of  faith  in  a  divine  love  had  not  yet  been  unlocked, 
and  his  soul  was  still  the  shrunken  rivulet,  with  only  this 
difference,  that  its  little  groove  of  sand  was  blocked  up, 
and  it  wandered  confusedly  against  dark  obstruction. 
1  An  abbreviation  of  "  defend." 


110  SILAS  MARNER 

And  so,  notwithstanding  the  honest  persuasions  of  Mr. 
Macey  and  Dolly  Winthrop,  Silas  spent  his  Christmas-day 
in  loneliness,  eating  his  meat  in  sadness  of  heart,  though 
the  meat  had  come  to  him  as  a  neighbourly  present.  In 
the  morning  he  looked  out  on  the  black  frost  that  seemed 
to  press  cruelly  on  every  blade  of  grass,  while  the  half -icy 
red  pool  shivered  under  the  bitter  wind  ;  but  towards 
evening  the  snow  began  to  fall,  and  curtained  from  him 
even  that  dreary  outlook,  shutting  him  close  up  with  his 
narrow  grief.  And  he  sat  in  his  robbed  home  through  the 
livelong  evening,  not  caring  to  close  his  shutters  or  lock 
his  door,  pressing  his  head  between  his  hands  and  moaning, 
till  the  cold  grasped  him  and  told  him  that  his  fire  was  grey. 

Nobody  in  this  world  but  himself  knew  that  he  was  the 
same  Silas  Marner  who  had  once  loved  his  fellow  with 
tender  love,  and  trusted  in  an  unseen  goodness.  Even  to 
himself  that  past  experience  had  become  dim. 

But  in  Raveloe  village  the  bells  rang  merrily,  and  the 
church  was  fuller  than  all  through  the  rest  of  the  year, 
with  red  faces  among  the  abundant  dark-green  boughs — 
faces  prepared  for  a  longer  service  th/in  usual  by  an  odor- 
ous breakfast  of  toast  and  ale.  Those  green  boughs,  the 
hymn  and  anthem  never  heard  but  at  Christmas — even  the 
Athanasian  Creed,1  which  was  discriminated  from  the 
others  only  as  being  longer  and  of  exceptional  virtue,  since 
it  was  only  read  on  rare  occasions — brought  a  vague  exult- 
ing sense,  for  which  the  grown  men  could  as  little  have 
found  words  as  the  children,  that  something  great  and 
mysterious  had  been  done  for  them  in  heaven  above  and 
in  earth  below,  which  they  were  appropriating  by  their 
presence.  And  then  the  red  faces  made  their  way  through 
the  black  biting  frost  to  their  own  homes,  feeling  them- 
selves free  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  eat,  drink,  and  be 

1  A  creed  formerly  ascribed  to  Athanasins,  Bishop  of  Alexandria 
(296-373  A.D.),  but  whose  real  authorship  is  unknown.  This  creed 
is  retained  in  the  service  of  the  Church  of  England,  but  not  in  that  of 
the  American  Episcopal  Church. 


SILAS  MARNER  111 

merry,  and  using  that  Christian  freedom  without  diffi- 
dence. 

At  Squire  Cass's  family  party  that  day  nobody  mentioned 
Dunstan — nobody  was  sorry  for  his  absence,  or  feared  it 
would  be  too  long.  The  doctor  and  his  wife,  uncle  and 
aunt  Kimble,  were  there,  and  the  annual  Christmas  talk 
was  carried  through  without  any  omissions,  rising  to  the 
climax 1  of  Mr.  Kimble's  experience  when  he  walked  the 
London  hospitals  thirty  years  back,  together  with  striking 
professional  anecdotes  then  gathered.  Whereupon  cards 
followed,  with  aunt  Kimble's  annual  failure  to  follow  suit, 
and  uncle  Kimble's  irascibility  concerning  the  odd  trick 
which  was  rarely  explicable  to  him,  when  it  was  not  on 
his  side,  without  a  general  visitation  of  tricks  to  see  that 
they  were  formed  on  sound  principles  :  the  whole  being 
accompanied  by  a  strong  steaming  odour  of  spirits-and- 
water. 

But  the  party  on  Christmas-day,  being  a  strictly  family 
party,  was  not  the  pre-eminently  brilliant  celebration  of 
the  season  at  the  Ked  House.  It  was  the  great  dance  on 
New  Year's  Eve  that  made  the  glory  of  Squire  Cass's  hos- 
pitality, as  of  his  forefathers',  time  out  of  mind.  This 
was  the  occasion  when  all  the  society  of  Raveloe  and  Tar- 
ley,  whether  old  acquaintances  separated  by  long  rutty  dis- 
tances, or  cooled  acquaintances  separated  by  misunder- 
standings concerning  runaway  calves,  or  acquaintances 
founded  on  intermittent  condescension,  counted  on  meet- 
ing and  on  comporting  themselves  with  mutual  appropri- 
ateness. This  was  the  occasion  on  which  fair  dames  who 
came  on  pillions  sent  their  band  boxes  before  them,  sup- 
plied with  more  than  their  evening  costume  ;  for  the  feast 
was  not  to  end  with  a  single  evening,  like  a  paltry  town 
entertainment,  where  the  whole  supply  of  eatables  is  put 
on  the  table  at  once,  and  bedding  is  scanty.  The  Red 
House  was  provisioned  as  if  for  a  siege ;  and  as  for  the 
spare  feather-beds  ready  to  be  laid  on  floors,  they  were  as 

1  Is  this  a  correct  use  of  the  word  ? 


112  SILAS  MARNER 

plentiful  as  might  naturally  be  expected  in  a  family  that 
had  killed  its  own  geese  for  many  generations. 

Godfrey  Cass  was  looking  forward  to  this  New  Year's 
Eve  with  a  foolish  reckless  longing,  that  made  him  half 
deaf  to  his  importunate  companion,  Anxiety. 

"  Dunsey  will  be  coming  home  soon  :  there  will  be  a 
great  blow-up,  and  how  will  you  bribe  his  spite  to  silence  ?" 
said  Anxiety. 

"  Oh,  he  won't  come  home  before  New  Year's  Eve,  per- 
haps," said  Godfrey  ;  "and  I  shall  sit  by  Nancy  then,  and 
dance  with  her,  and  get  a  kind  look  from  her  in  spite  of 
herself." 

"  But  money  is  wanted  in  another  quarter,"  said  Anxi- 
ety in  a  louder  voice,  "  and  how  will  you  get  it  without 
selling  your  mother's  diamond  pin  ?  And  if  you  don't 
get  it  .  .  .  ?" 

"  Well,  but  something  may  happen  to  make  things 
easier.  At  any  rate,  there's  one  pleasure  for  me  close 
at  hand  :  Nancy  is  coming." 

"Yes,  and  suppose  your  father  should  bring  matters  to 
a  pass  that  will  oblige  you  to  decline  marrying  her — and 
to  give  your  reasons  ?  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  worry  me.  I  can  see 
Nancy's  eyes,  just  as  they  will  look  at  me,  and  feel  her 
hand  in  mine  already." 

But  Anxiety  went  on,  though  in  noisy  Christmas  com- 
pany ;  refusing  to  be  utterly  quieted  even  by  much  drink- 
ing. 

What  signs  of  reawakening  in  Silas  Marner's  life  are  to  be  found  in 
this  chapter  ?  What  part  can  we  see  that  Mrs.  Winthrop  will  play  in 
the  development  of  the  story  ?  Note  the  skilful  transition  from  Mar- 
ner  and  his  interests  to  the  other  thread  of  the  plot — Godfrey  Cass  and 
his  love. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SOME  women,  I  grant,  would  not  appear  to  advantage 
seated  on  a  pillion,  and  attired  in  a  drab  Joseph 1  and  a 
drab  beaver-bonnet,  with  a  crown  resembling  a  small  stew- 
paii ;  for  a  garment  suggesting  a  coachman's  greatcoat,  cut 
out  under  an  exiguity  of  cloth  that  would  only  allow  of 
miniature  capes,  is  not  well  adapted  to  conceal  deficiencies 
of  contour,  nor  is  drab  a  colour  that  will  throw  sallow 
cheeks  into  lively  contrast.  It  was  all  the  greater  tri- 
umph to  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter's  beauty  that  she  looked 
thoroughly  bewitching  in  that  costume,  as,  seated  on  the 
pillion  behind  her  tall,  erect  father,  she  held  one  arm 
round  him,  and  looked  down,  with  open-eyed  anxiety,  at 
the  treacherous  snow-covered  pools  and  puddles,  which 
sent  up  formidable  splashings  of  mud  under  the  stamp  of 
Dobbin's  foot.  A  painter  would,  perhaps,  have  preferred 
her  in  those  moments  when  she  was  free  from  self-con- 
sciousness ;  but  certainly  the  bloom  on  her  cheeks  was  at 
its  highest  point  of  contrast  with  the  surrounding  drab 
when  she  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  Red  House,  and  saw 
Mr.  Godfrey  Oass  ready  to  lift  her  from  the  pillion.  She 
wished  her  sister  Priscilla  had  come  up  at  the  same  time 
behind  the  servant,  for  then  she  would  have  contrived  that 
Mr.  Godfrey  should  have  lifted  off  Priscilla  first,  and,  in 
the  meantime,  she  would  have  persuaded  her  father  to  go 
round  to  the  horse-block  instead  of  alighting  at  the  door- 
steps. It  was  very  painful,  when  you  had  made  it  quite 
clear  to  a  young  man  that  you  were  determined  not  to 
marry  him,  however  much  he  might  wish  it,  that  he  would 

1  A  riding  habit  for  women  made  like  a  man's  overcoat,  usually  with 
a  broad  cape,  worn  in  the  eighteenth  century  and  later. 
8 


114  SILAS  MARNER 

still  continue  to  pay  you  marked  attentions  ;  besides,  why 
didn't  he  always  show  the  same  attentions,  if  he  meant 
them  sincerely,  instead  of  being  so  strange  as  Mr.  Godfrey 
Cass  was,  sometimes  behaving  as  if  he  didn't  want  to  speak 
to  her,  and  taking  no  notice  of  her  for  weeks  and  weeks, 
and  then,  all  on  a  sudden,  almost  making  love  again  ? 
Moreover,  it  was  quite  plain  he  had  no  real  love  for  her, 
else  he  would  not  let  people  have  that  to  say  of  him 
which  they  did  say.  Did  he  suppose  that  Miss  Nancy 
Lammeter  was  to  be  won  by  any  man,  squire  or  no  squire, 
who  led  a  bad  life  ?  That  was  not  what  she  had  been  used 
to  see  in  her  own  father,  who  was  the  soberest  and  best 
man  in  that  country-side,  only  a  little  hot  and  hasty  now 
and  then,  if  things  were  not  done  to  the  minute. 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  Miss  Nancy's  mind, 
in  their  habitual  succession,  in  the  moments  between  her 
first  sight  of  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  standing  at  the  door  and 
her  own  arrival  there.  Happily,  the  Squire  came  out  too 
and  gave  a  loud  greeting  to  her  father,  so  that,  somehow, 
under  cover  of  this  noise  she  seemed  to  find  concealment 
for  her  confusion  and  neglect  of  any  suitably  formal  be- 
haviour, while  she  was  being  lifted  from  the  pillion  by 
strong  arms  which  seemed  to  find  her  ridiculously  small 
and  light.  And  there  was  the  best  reason  for  hastening 
into  the  house  at  once,  since  the  snow  was  beginning  to  fall 
again,  threatening  an  unpleasant  journey  for  such  guests  as 
were  still  on  the  road.  These  were  a  small  minority  ;  for 
already  the  afternoon  was  beginning  to  decline,  and  there 
would  not  be  too  much  time  for  the  ladies  who  came  from 
a  distance  to  attire  themselves  in  readiness  for  the  early  tea 
which  was  to  inspirit  them  for  the  dance. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  voices  through  the  house,  as  Miss 
Nancy  entered,  mingled  with  the  scrape  of  a  fiddle  pre- 
luding in  the  kitchen ;  but  the  Lammeters  were  guests 
whose  arrival  had  evidently  been  thought  of  so  much  that 
it  had  been  watched  for  from  the  windows,  for  Mrs.  Kimble, 
who  did  the  honours  at  the  Red  House  on  these  great  oc- 


SILAS  MARNER  115 

casions,  came  forward  to  meet  Miss  Nancy  in  the  hall,  and 
conduct  her  up-stairs.  Mrs.  Kimble  was  the  Squire's  sister, 
as  well  as  the  doctor's  wife — a  double  dignity,  with  which 
her  diameter  was  in  direct  proportion  ;  so  that,  a  journey 
up-stairs  being  rather  fatiguing  to  her,  she  did  not  oppose 
Miss  Nancy's  request  to  be  allowed  to  find  her  way  alone 
to  the  Blue  Eoom,  where  the  Miss  Lammeters'  bandboxes 
had  been  deposited  on  their  arrival  in  the  morning. 

There  was  hardly  a  bedroom  in  the  house  where  feminine 
compliments  were  not  passing  and  feminine  toilettes  going 
forward,  in  various  stages,  in  space  made  scanty  by  extra 
beds  spread  upon  the  floor  ;  and  Miss  Nancy,  as  she  entered 
the  Blue  Room,  had  to  make  her  little  formal  curtsy  to  a 
group  of  six.  On  the  one  hand,  there  were  ladies  no  less 
important  than  the  two  Miss  Gunns,  the  wine  merchant's 
daughters  from  Lytherly,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion, 
with  the  tightest  skirts  and  the  shortest  waists,  and  gazed 
at  by  Miss  Ladbrook  (of  the  Old  Pastures)  with  a  shyness 
not  imsustained  by  inward  criticism.  Partly,  Miss  Lad- 
brook  felt  that  her  own  skirt  must  be  regarded  as  unduly 
lax  by  the  Miss  Gunns,  and  partly,  that  it  was  a  pity  the 
Miss  Gunns  did  not  show  that  judgment  which  she  herself 
would  show  if  she  were  in  their  place,  by  stopping  a  little 
on  this  side  of  the  fashion.  On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Lad- 
brook  was  standing  in  skull-cap  and  front,1  with  her  turban 
in  her  hand,  curtsying  and  smiling  blandly  and  saying, 
"  After  you,  ma'am,"  to  another  lady  in  similar  circum- 
stances, who  had  politely  offered  the  precedence  at  the 
looking-glass. 

But  Miss  Nancy  had  no  sooner  made  her  curtsy  than  an 
elderly  lady  came  forward,  whose  full  white  muslin  ker- 
chief, and  mob-cap  2  round  her  curls  of  smooth  grey  hair, 
were  in  daring  contrast  with  the  puffed  yellow  satins  and 
top-knotted  caps  of  her  neighbours.  She  approached  Miss 
Nancy  with  much  primness,  and  said,  with  a  slow,  treble 
suavity — 

1  Piece  of  false  hair.  8  Or  mob,  a  plain  cap. 


116  SILAS  MARNER 

"  Niece,  I  hope  I  see  you  well  in  health."  Miss  Nancy 
kissed  her  aunt's  cheek  dutifully,  and  answered,  with  the 
same  sort  of  amiable  primness,  "  Quite  well,  I  thank  you, 
aunt ;  and  I  hope  I  see  you  the  same." 

"  Thank  you,  niece  ;  I  keep  my  health  for  the  present. 
And  how  is  my  brother-in-law  ?  " 

These  dutiful  questions  and  answers  were  continued  un- 
til it  was  ascertained  in  detail  that  the  Lammeters  were  all 
as  well  as  usual,  and  the  Osgoods  likewise,  also  that  niece 
Priscilla  must  certainly  arrive  shortly,  and  that  travelling 
on  pillions  in  snowy  weather  was  unpleasant,  though  a 
Joseph  was  a  great  protection.  Then  Nancy  was  formally 
introduced  to  her  aunt's  visitors,  the  Miss  Gunns,  as  being 
the  daughters  of  a  mother  known  to  their  mother,  though 
now  for  the  first  time  induced  to  make  a  journey  into 
these  parts  ;  and  these  ladies  were  so  taken  by  surprise  at 
finding  such  a  lovely  face  and  figure  in  an  out-of-the-way 
country  place,  that  they  began  to  feel  some  curiosity  about 
the  dress  she  would  put  on  when  she  took  off  her  Joseph. 
Miss  Nancy,  whose  thoughts  were  always  conducted  with 
the  propriety  and  moderation  conspicuous  in  her  manners, 
remarked  to  herself  that  the  Miss  Gunns  were  rather  hard- 
featured  than  otherwise,  and  that  such  very  low  dresses  as 
they  wore  might  have  been  attributed  to  vanity  if  their 
shoulders  had  been  pretty,  but  that,  being  as  they  were, 
it  was  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they  showed  their 
necks  from  a  love  of  display,  but  rather  from  some  obliga- 
tion not  inconsistent  with  sense  and  modesty.  She  felt 
convinced,  as  she  opened  her  box,  that  this  must  be  her 
aunt  Osgood's  opinion,  for  Miss  Nancy's  mind  resembled 
her  aunt's  to  a  degree  that  everybody  said  was  surprising, 
considering  the  kinship  was  on  Mr.  Osgood's  side  ;  and 
though  you  might  not  have  supposed  it  from  the  formality 
of  their  greeting,  there  was  a  devoted  attachment  and 
mutual  admiration  between  aunt  and  niece.  Even  Miss 
Nancy's  refusal  of  her  cousin  Gilbert  Osgood  (on  the 
ground  solely  that  he  was  her  cousin),  though  it  had 


SILAS  MAKNER  111 

grieved  her  aunt  greatly,  had  not  in  the  least  cooled  the 
preference  which  had  determined  her  to  leave  Nancy  sev- 
eral of  her  hereditary  ornaments,  let  Gilbert's  future  wife 
be  whom  she  might. 

Three  of  the  ladies  quickly  retired,  but  the  Miss  Gunns 
were  quite  content  that  Mrs.  Osgood's  inclination  to  re- 
main with  her  niece  gave  them  also  a  reason  for  staying  to 
see  the  rustic  beauty's  toilette.  And  it  was  really  a  pleas- 
ure— from  the  first  opening  of  the  bandbox,  where  every- 
thing smelt  of  lavender  and  rose-leaves,  to  the  clasping  of 
the  small  coral  necklace  that  fitted  closely  round  her  little 
white  neck.  Everything  belonging  to  Miss  Nancy  was  of 
delicate  purity  and  nattiness  :  not  a  crease  was  where  it 
had  no  business  to  be,  not  a  bit  of  her  linen  professed 
whiteness  without  fulfilling  its  profession  ;  the  very  pins 
on  her  pincushion  were  stuck  in  after  a  pattern  from  which 
she  was  careful  to  allow  no  aberration  ; 1  and  as  for  her  own 
person,  it  gave  the  same  idea  of  perfect  unvarying  neatness 
as  the  body  of  a  little  bird.  It  is  true  that  her  light-brown 
hair  was  cropped  behind  like  a  boy's,  and  was  dressed  in 
front  in  a  number  of  flat  rings,  that  lay  quite  away  from 
her  face;  but  there  was  no  sort  of  coiffure 2  that  could 
make  Miss  Nancy's  cheek  and  neck  look  otherwise  than 
pretty  ;  and  when  at  last  she  stood  complete  in  her  sil- 
very twilled  silk,  her  lace  tucker,  her  coral  necklace,  and 
coral  ear-drops,  the  Miss  Gunns  could  see  nothing  to  crit- 
icise except  her  hands,  which  bore  the  traces  of  butter- 
making,  cheese-crushing,  and  even  still  coarser  work. 
But  Miss  Nancy  was  not  ashamed  of  that,  for  while  she 
was  dressing  she  narrated  to  her  aunt  how  she  and  Priscilla 
had  packed  their  boxes  yesterday,  because  this  morning 
was  baking  morning,  and  since  they  were  leaving  home,  it 
was  desirable  to  make  a  good  supply  of  meat-pies  for  the 
kitchen  ;  and  as  she  concluded  this  judicious  remark,  she 

1  A  pattern  that  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  alter  or  depart  from,— 
an  example  of  George  Eliot's  Latin  diction. 

2  Head-dress,  from  the  French. 


118  SILAS  MARNER 

turned  to  the  Miss  Gunns  that  she  might  not  commit  the 
rudeness  of  not  including  them  in  the  conversation.  The 
Miss  Gunns  smiled  stiffly,  and  thought  what  a  pity  it  was 
that  these  rich  country  people,  who  could  afford  to  buy 
such  good  clothes  (really  Miss  Nancy's  lace  and  silk  were 
very  costly),  should  be  brought  up  in  utter  ignorance  and 
vulgarity.  She  actually  said  "mate"  for  "meat," 
"  'appen  "  for  "  perhaps,"  and  "  oss  "  for  "  horse,"  which 
to  young  ladies  living  in  good  Lytherly  society,  who  habit- 
ually said  'orse,  even  in  domestic  privacy,  and  only  said 
'appen  on  the  right  occasions,  was  necessarily  shocking. 
Miss  Nancy,  indeed,  had  never  been  to  1  any  school  higher 
than  Dame  Tedman's ;  her  acquaintance  with  profane 2 
literature  hardly  went  beyond  the  rhymes  she  had  worked 
in  her  large  sampler 3  under  the  lamb  and  the  shepherd- 
ess ;  and  in  order  to  balance  an  account,  she  was  obliged 
to  effect  her  subtraction  by  removing  visible  metallic  shil- 
lings and  sixpences  from  a  visible  metallic  total.  There  is 
hardly  a  servant-maid  in  these  days  who  is  not  better  in- 
formed than  Miss  Nancy  ;  yet  she  had  the  essential  attri- 
butes of  a  lady — high  veracity,  delicate  honour  in  her  deal- 
ings, deference  to  others,  and  refined  personal  habits  ; — 
and  lest  these  should  not  suffice  to  convince  grammatical 
fair  ones  that  her  feelings  can  at  all  resemble  theirs,  I  will 
add  that  she  was  slightly  proud  and  exacting,  and  as  con- 
stant in  her  affection  towards  a  baseless  opinion  as  towards 
an  erring  lover. 

The  anxiety  about  sister  Priscilla,  which  had  grown 
rather  active  by  the  time  the  coral  necklace  was  clasped, 
was  happily  ended  by  the  entrance  of  that  cheerful-looking 
lady  herself,  with  a  face  made  blowsy 4  by  cold  and  damp. 
After  the  first  questions  and  greetings,  she  turned  to 
Nancy,  and  surveyed  her  from  head  to  foot — then  wheeled 

1  A  colloquial  idiom. 

2  As  opposed  to  sacred. 

3  From  the  Latin  exemplar  ;  a  specimen  of  needle-work. 

4  Ruddy-faced. 


SILAS  MARNER  119 

her  round,  to  ascertain  that  the  back  view  was  equally 
faultless. 

"  What  do  you  think  o'  these  gowns,  aunt  Osgood  ?  " 
said  Priscilla,  while  Nancy  helped  her  to  unrobe. 

"Very  handsome  indeed,  niece/'  said  Mrs.  Osgood,  with 
a  slight  increase  of  formality.  She  always  thought  niece 
Priscilla  too  rough. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  have  the  same  as  Nancy,  you  know,  for 
all  I'm  five  years  older,  and  it  makes  me  look  yallow  ;  for 
she  never  will  have  anything  without  I  have  mine  just  like 
it,  because  she  wants  us  to  look  like  sisters.  And  I  tell 
her,  folks  'ull  think  it's  my  weakness  makes  me  fancy  as  I 
shall  look  pretty  in  what  she  looks  pretty  in.  For  I  am 
ugly — there's  no  denying  that ;  I  feature  1  my  father's 
family.  But,  law  !  I  don't  mind,  do  you  ? "  Priscilla 
here  turned  to  the  Miss  Gunns,  rattling  on  in  too  much 
preoccupation  with  the  delight  of  talking,  to  notice  that 
her  candour  was  not  appreciated.  "  The  pretty  uns  do 
for  fly-catchers  —  they  keep  the  men  off  us.  I've  no 
opinion  o'  the  men,  Miss  Gunn — I  don't  know  what  you 
have.  And  as  for  fretting  and  stewing  about  what  they'll 
think  of  you  from  morning  till  night,  and  making  your 
life  uneasy  about  what  they're  doing  when  they're  out  o' 
your  sight — as  I  tell  Nancy,  it's  a  folly  no  woman  need  be 
guilty  of,  if  she's  got  a  good  father  and  a  good  home  ;  let 
her  leave  it  to  them  as  have  got  no  fortin,  and  can't  help 
themselves.  As  I  say,  Mr.  Have-your-own-way  is  the  best 
husband,  and  the  only  one  I'd  ever  promise  to  obey.  I 
know  it  isn't  pleasant,  when  you've  been  used  to  living  in 
a  big  way,  and  managing  hogsheads  and  all  that,  to  go  and 
put  your  nose  in  by  somebody  else's  fireside,  or  to  sit  down 
by  yourself  to  a  scrag 2  or  a  knuckle ; 3  but,  thank  God  ! 
my  father's  a  sober  man  and  likely  to  live  ;  and  if  you've 

1  Still  in  colloquial  use  for  "  resemble." 

2  Something  thin  or  lean  (compare  scraggy) ;  hence  a  neck  of  mut- 
ton. 

3  The  knee-joint,  especially  of  veal. 


120  SILAS  MARNER 

got  a  man  by  the  chimney-corner,  it  doesn't  matter  if  he's 
childish — the  business  needn't  be  broke  up." 

The  delicate  process  of  getting  her  narrow  gown  over 
her  head  without  injury  to  her  smooth  curls,  obliged  Miss 
Priscilla  to  pause  in  this  rapid  survey  of  life,  and  Mrs.  Os- 
good  seized  the  opportunity  of  rising  and  saying — 

"  Well,  niece,  you'll  follow  us.  The  Miss  Gunns  will 
like  to  go  down." 

" Sister/'  said  Nancy,  when  they  were  alone,  "you've 
offended  the  Miss  Gunns,  I'm  sure." 

"What  have  I  done,  child?"  said  Priscilla,  in  some 
alarm. 

"  Why,  you  asked  them  if  they  minded  about  being  ugly 
— you're  so  very  blunt." 

"  Law,  did  I  ?  Well,  it  popped  out  :  it's  a  mercy  I  said 
no  more,  for  I'm  a  bad  un  to  live  with  folks  when  they 
don't  like  the  truth.  But  as  for  being  ugly,  look  at  me, 
child,  in  this  silver-coloured  silk — I  told  you  how  it  'ud 
be — I  look  as  yallow  as  a  daffadil.  Anybody  'ud  say  you 
wanted  to  make  a  mawkin  l  of  me." 

"  No,  Priscy,  don't  say  so.  I  begged  and  prayed  of  you 
not  to  let  us  have  this  silk  if  you'd  like  another  better.  I 
was  willing  to  have  your  choice,  you  know  I  was,"  said 
Nancy,  in  anxious  self-vindication. 

"  Nonsense,  child  !  you  know  you'd  set  your  heart  on 
this  ;  and  reason  good,  for  you're  the  colour  o'  cream.  It 
'ud  be  fine  doings  for  you  to  dress  yourself  to  suit  my  skin. 
What  I  find  fault  with,  is  that  notion  o'  yours  as  I  must 
dress  myself  just  like  you.  But  you  do  as  you  like  with 
me — you  always  did,  from  when  first  you  begun  to  walk. 
If  you  wanted  to  go  the  field's  length,  the  field's  length 
you'd  go  ;  and  there  was  no  whipping  you,  foTyou  looked 
as  prim  and  innicent  as  a  daisy  all  the  while." 

"Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  gently,  as  she  fastened  a  coral 
necklace,  exactly  like  her  own,  round  Priscilla's  neck, 
which  was  very  far  from  being  like  her  own,  "  I'm  sure 
1  Also  maukin  and  malkin  ;  a  scarecrow  made  of  dish  rags. 


8ILA8  MARNER  121 

I'm  willing  to  give  way  as  far  as  is  right,  but  who  shouldn't 
dress  alike  if  it  isn't  sisters  ?  Would  you  have  us  go  about 
looking  as  if  we  were  no  kin  to  one  another — us  that  have 
got  no  mother  and  not  another  sister  in  the  world  ?  I'd 
do  what  was  right,  if  I  dressed  in  a  gown  dyed  with  cheese- 
colouring  ;  and  I'd  rather  you'd  choose,  and  let  me  wear 
what  pleases  you." 

"  There  you  go  again  !  You'd  come  round  to  the  same 
thing  if  one  talked  to  you  from  Saturday  night  till  Satur- 
day morning.  It'll  be  fine  fun  to  see  how  you'll  master 
your  husband  and  never  raise  your  voice  above  the  sing- 
ing o'  the  kettle  all  the  while.  I  like  to  see  the  men 
mastered  ! " 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Priscy,"  said  Nancy,  blushing.  "  You 
know  I  don't  mean  ever  to  be  married." 

"  Oh,  you  never  mean  a  fiddlestick's  end  !"  said  Pris- 
cilla,  as  she  arranged  her  discarded  dress,  and  closed  her 
bandbox.  "Who  shall  /have  to  work  for  when  father's 
gone,  if  you  are  to  go  and  take  notions  in  your  head  and 
be  an  old  maid,  because  some  folks  are  no  better  than  they 
should  be  ?  I  haven't  a  bit  o'  patience  Avith  you — sitting 
on  an  addled  egg  for  ever,  as  if  there  was  never  a  fresh  un 
in  the  world.  One  old  maid's  enough  out  o'  two  sisters  ; 
and  I  shall  do  credit  to  a  single  life,  for  God  A'mighty 
meant  me  for  it.  Come,  we  can  go  down  now.  I'm  as 
ready  as  a  mawkin  can  be — there's  nothing  awanting  to 
frighten  the  crows,  now  I've  got  my  ear-droppers 1  in." 

As  the  two  Miss  Lammeters  walked  into  the  large 
parlour  together,  any  one  who  did  not  know  the  character 
of  both  might  certainly  have  supposed  that  the  reason  why 
the  square-shouldered,  clumsy,  high-featured  Priscilla  wore 
a  dress  the  facsimile  of  her  pretty  sister's,  was  either  the 
mistaken  vanity  of  the  one,  or  the  malicious  contrivance 
of  the  other  in  order  to  set  off  her  own  rare  beauty.  But 
the  good-natured  self -forgetful  cheeriness  and  common- 
sense  of  Priscilla  would  soon  have  dissipated  the  oue 

1  Colloquial  for  "  ear-drops,"  i.e.,  ear-rings  with  pendants. 


122  SILAS  MARNER 

suspicion ;  and  the  modest  calm  of  Nancy's  speech  and 
manners  told  clearly  of  a  mind  free  from  all  disavowed 
devices. 

Places  of  honour  had  been  kept  for  the  Miss  Lammeters 
near  the  head  of  the  principal  tea-table  in  the  wainscoted 
parlour,  now  looking  fresh  and  pleasant  with  handsome 
branches  of  holly,  yew,  and  laurel,  from  the  abundant 
growths  of  the  old  garden  ;  and  Nancy  felt  an  inward 
nutter,  that  no  firmness  of  purpose  could  prevent,  when 
she  saw  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass  advancing  to  lead  her  to  a  sea4-, 
between  himself  and  Mr.  Crackenthorp,  while  Priscilla  was 
called  to  the  opposite  side  between  her  father  and  the 
Squire.  It  certainly  did  make  some  difference  to  Nancy 
that  the  lover  she  had  given  up  was  the  young  man  of 
quite  the  highest  consequence  in  the  parish — at  home  in  a 
venerable  and  unique  parlour,  which  was  the  extremity  of 
grandeur  in  her  experience,  a  parlour  where  she  might  one 
day  have  been  mistress,  with  the  consciousness  that  she 
was  spoken  of  as  "  Madam  Cass,"  the  Squire's  wife.  These 
circumstances  exalted  her  inward  drama  in  her  own  eyes, 
and  deepened  the  emphasis  with  which  she  declared  to  her- 
self that  not  the  most  dazzling  rank  should  induce  her  to 
marry  a  man  whose  conduct  showed  him  careless  of  his 
character,  but  that,  "love  once,  love  always,"  was  the 
motto  of  a  true  and  pure  woman,  and  no  man  should  ever 
have  any  right  over  her  which  would  be  a  call  on  her  to 
destroy  the  dried  flowers  that  she  treasured,  and  always 
would  treasure,  for  Godfrey  Cass's  sake.  And  Nancy  was 
capable  of  keeping  her  word  to  herself  under  very  try- 
ing conditions.  Nothing  but  a  becoming  blush  betrayed 
the  moving  thoughts  that  urged  themselves  upon  her  as 
she  accepted  the  seat  next  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp  ;  for  she 
was  so  instinctively  neat  and  adroit  in  all  her  actions, 
and  her  pretty  lips  met  each  other  with  such  quiet  firm- 
ness, that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  her  to  appeal 
agitated. 

It  was  not  the  Rector's  practice  to  let  a  charming  blush 


SILAS  MARNER  123 

pass  without  an  appropriate  compliment.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  lofty  or  aristocratic,  but  simply  a  merry-eyed, 
small-featured,  grey-haired  man,  with  his  chin  propped  by 
an  ample  many-creased  white  neckcloth  which  seemed  to 
predominate  over  every  other  point  in  his  person,  and 
somehow  to  impress  its  peculiar  character  on  his  remarks  ; 
so  that  to  have  considered  his  amenities  apart  from  his 
cravat  would  have  been  a  severe,  and  perhaps  a  dangerous, 
effort  of  abstraction. 

"Ha,  Miss  Nancy,"  he  said,  turning  his  head  within 
his  cravat  and  smiling  down  pleasantly  upon  her,  "  when 
anybody  pretends  this  has  been  a  severe  winter,  I  shall  tell 
them  I  saw  the  roses  blooming  on  New  Year's  Eve — eh, 
Godfrey,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

Godfrey  made  no  reply,  and  avoided  looking  at  Nancy 
very  markedly  ;  for  though  these  complimentary  personal- 
ities were  held  to  be  in  excellent  taste  in  old-fashioned 
Eaveloe  society,  reverent  love  has  a  politeness  of  its  own 
which  it  teaches  to  men  otherwise  of  small  schooling.  But 
the  Squire  was  rather  impatient  at  Godfrey's  showing  him- 
self a  dull  spark  l  in  this  way.  By  this  advanced  hour  of 
the  day,  the  Squire  was  always  in  higher  spirits  than  we 
have  seen  him  in  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  felt  it  quite 
pleasant  to  fulfil  the  hereditary  duty  of  being  noisily  jovial 
and  patronising :  the  large  silver  snuff-box  was  in  active 
service  and  was  offered  without  fail  to  all  neighbours  from 
time  to  time,  however  often  they  might  have  declined  the 
favour.  At  present,  the  Squire  had  only  given  an  express 
welcome  to  the  heads  of  families  as  they  appeared  ;  but 
always  as  the  evening  deepened,  his  hospitality  rayed  out 
more  widely,  till  he  had  tapped  the  youngest  guests  on  the 
back  and  shown  a  peculiar  fondness  for  their  presence,  in 
the  full  belief  that  they  must  feel  their  lives  made  happy 
by  their  belonging  to  a  parish  where  there  was  such  a 
hearty  man  as  Squire  Cass  to  invite  them  and  wish  them 
well.  Even  in  this  early  stage  of  the  jovial  mood,  it  was 
1  A  gay,  lively  fellow  ;  the  word  is  now  obsolete. 


124  SILAS  MARNER 

natural  that  he  should  wish  to  supply  his  son's  deficiencies 
by  looking  and  speaking  for  him. 

"Ay,  ay/'  he  began,  offering  his  snuff-box  to  Mr.  Lam- 
meter,  who  for  the  second  time  bowed  his  head  and  waved 
his  hand  in  stiff  rejection  of  the  offer,  "  us  old  fellows  may 
wish  ourselves  young  to-night,  when  we  see  the  mistletoe- 
bough  in  the  White  Parlour.  It's  true,  most  things  are 
gone  back'ard  in  these  last  thirty  years  —  the  country's 
going  down  since  the  old  king  fell  ill.  But  when  I  look  at 
Miss  Nancy  here,  I  begin  to  think  the  lasses  keep  up  their 
quality  ; — ding1  me  if  I  remember  a  sample  to  match  her, 
not  when  I  was  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  thought  a  deal 
about  my  pigtail.2  No  offence  to  you,  madam,"  he  added, 
bending  to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  sat  by  him,  "  I  didn't 
know  you  when  you  were  as  young  as  Miss  Nancy  here." 

Mrs.  Crackenthorp — a  small  blinking  woman,  who  fid- 
geted incessantly  with  her  lace,  ribbons,  and  gold  chain, 
turning  her  head  about  and  making  subdued  noises,  very 
much  like  a  guinea-pig  that  twitches  its  nose  and  solilo- 
quises in  all  company  indiscriminately — now  blinked  and 
fidgeted  towards  the  Squire,  and  said,  "  Oh  no — no  offence." 

This  emphatic  compliment  of  the  Squire's  to  Nancy  was 
felt  by  others  besides  Godfrey  to  have  a  diplomatic  signifi- 
cance ;  and  her  father  gave  a  slight  additional  erectness  to 
his  back,  as  he  looked  across  the  table  at  her  with  com- 
placent gravity.  That  grave  and  orderly  senior  was  not 
going  to  bate  a  jot  of  his  dignity  by  seeming  elated  at  the 
notion  of  a  match  between  his  family  and  the  Squire's  :  he 
was  gratified  by  any  honour  paid  to  his  daughter  ;  but  he 
must  see  an  alteration  in  several  ways  before  his  consent 
would  be  vouchsafed.  His  spare  but  healthy  person,  and 
high-featured  firm  face,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been 
flushed  by  excess,  was  in  strong  contrast,  not  only  with  the 
Squire's,  but  with  the  appearance  of  the  Raveloe  farmers 

1  Also  dang,  a  mild  form  of  damn. 

8  A  cue  formed  of  the  natural  hair,  worn  instead  of  the  periwig ;  the 
pigtail  was  worn  as  late  as  1825. 


SILAS  MARNER  125 

generally — in  accordance  with  a  favourite  saying  of  his  own, 
that  "  breed  was  stronger  than  pasture." 

"Miss  Nancy's  wonderful  like  what  her  mother  was, 
though ;  isn't  she,  Kimble  ? "  said  the  stout  lady  of  that 
name,  looking  round  for  her  husband. 

But  Doctor  Kimble  (country  apothecaries  in  old  days 
enjoyed  that  title  without  authority  of  diploma),  being  a 
thin  and  agile  man,  was  flitting  about  the  room  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  making  himself  agreeable  to  his  fem- 
inine patients,  with  medical  impartiality,  and  being  wel- 
comed everywhere  as  a  doctor  by  hereditary  right — not  one 
of  those  miserable  apothecaries  who  canvass  for  practice  in 
strange  neighbourhoods,  and  spend  all  their  income  in 
starving  their  one  horse,  but  a  man  of  substance,  able  to 
keep  an  extravagant  table  like  the  best  of  his  patients. 
Time  out  of  mind  the  Eaveloe  doctor  had  been  a  Kimble  ; 
Kimble  was  inherently  a  doctor's  name ;  and  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  contemplate  firmly  the  melancholy  fact  that  the 
actual  Kimble  had  no  son,  so  that  his  practice  might  one 
day  be  handed  over  to  a  successor  with  the  incongruous 
name  of  Taylor  or  Johnson.  But  in  that  case  the  wiser 
people  in  Raveloe  would  employ  Dr.  Blick  of  Elitton — as 
less  unnatural. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me,  my  dear  ?"  said  the  authentic 
doctor,  coming  quickly  to  his  wife's  side ;  but,  as  if  fore- 
seeing that  she  would  be  too  much  out  of  breath  to  repeat 
her  remark,  he  went  on  immediately — "  Ha,  Miss  Pris- 
cilla,  the  sight  of  you  revives  the  taste  of  that  super-excel- 
lent pork-pie.  I  hope  the  batch  isn't  near  an  end." 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  is,  doctor,"  said  Priscilla;  "but  I'D 
answer  for  it  the  next  shall  be  as  good.  My  pork-pies 
don't  turn  out  well  by  chance." 

"  Not  as  your  doctoring  does,  eh,  Kimble  ! — because 
folks  forget  to  take  your  physic,  eh  ?"  said  the  Squire, 
who  regarded  physic  and  doctors  as  many  loyal  church- 
men '  regard  the  church  and  the  clergy — tasting  a  joke 
against  them  when  he  was  in  health,  but  impatiently  eager 


126  SILAS  MARNER 

for  their  aid  when  anything  was  the  matter  with  him.  He 
tapped  his  box,  and  looked  round  with  a  triumphant  laugh. 

"  Ah,  she  has  a  quick  wit,  my  friend  Priscilla  has/*  said 
the  doctor,  choosing  to  attribute  the  epigram  to  a  lady 
rather  than  allow  a  brother-in-law  that  advantage  over 
him.  "  She  saves  a  little  pepper  to  sprinkle  over  her  talk 
— that's  the  reason  why  she  never  puts  too  much  into  her 
pies.  There's  my  wife,  now,  she  never  has  an  answer  at 
her  tongue's  end  ;  but  if  I  offend  her,  she's  sure  to  scarify 
my  throat  with  black  pepper  the  next  day,  or  else  give  me 
the  colic  with  watery  greens.  That's  an  awful  tit-for-tat." 
Here  the  vivacious  doctor  made  a  pathetic  grimace. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Kimble,  laugh- 
ing above  her  double  chin  with  much  good-humour,  aside 
to  Mrs.  Crackenthorp,  who  blinked  and  nodded,  and  ami- 
ably intended  to  smile,  but  the  intention  lost  itself  in 
small  twitchings  and  noises. 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  sort  of  tit-for-tat  adopted  in  your 
profession,  Kimble,  if  you've  a  grudge  against  a  patient," 
said  the  rector. 

"  Never  do  have  a  grudge  against  our  patients,"  said 
Mr.  Kimble,  "except  when  they  leave  us  :  and  then,  you 
see,  we  haven't  the  chance  of  prescribing  for  'em.  Ha, 
Miss  Nancy,"  he  continued,  suddenly  skipping  to  Nancy's 
side,  "  you  won't  forget  your  promise  ?  You're  to  save  a 
dance  for  me,  you  know." 

"  Come,  come,  Kimble,  don't  you  be  too  for'ard,"  said 
the  Squire.  "  Give  the  young  uns  fair-play.  There's  my 
son  Godfrey  '11  be  wanting  to  have  a  round  with  you  if  you 
run  off  with  Miss  Nancy.  He's  bespoke  her  for  the  first 
dance,  I'll  be  bound.  Eh,  sir  !  what  do  you  say  ? "  he 
continued,  throwing  himself  backward,  and  looking  at 
Godfrey.  "  Haven't  you  asked  Miss  Nancy  to  open  the 
dance  with  you  ?  " 

Godfrey,  sorely  uncomfortable  under  this  significant  in- 
sistance  about  Nancy,  and  afraid  to  think  where  it  would 
end  by  the  time  his  father  had  set  his  usual  hospitable  ex- 


SILAS  MARNER  127 

ample  of  drinking  before  and  after  supper,  saw  no  course 
open  but  to  turn  to  Nancy  and  say,  with  as  little  awkward- 
ness as  possible — 

"  No  ;  I've  not  asked  her  yet,  but  I  hope  she'll  consent 
— if  somebody  else  hasn't  been  before  me." 

"No,  I've  not  engaged  myself,"  said  Nancy,  quietly, 
though  blushingly.  (If  Mr.  Godfrey  founded  any  hopes 
on  her  consenting  to  dance  with  him,  he  would  soon  be  un- 
deceived ;  but  there  was  no  need  for  her  to  be  uncivil.) 

"  Then  I  hope  you've  no  objections  to  dancing  with 
me,"  said  Godfrey,  beginning  to  lose  the  sense  that  there 
was  anything  uncomfortable  in  this  arrangement. 

"  No,  no  objections,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  cold  tone. 

"  Ah,  well,  you're  a  lucky  fellow,  Godfrey,"  said  uncle 
Kimble  ;  "  but  you're  my  godson,  so  I  won't  stand  in  your 
way.  Else  I'm  not  so  very  old,  eh,  my  dear  ?"  he  went 
on,  skipping  to  his  wife's  side  again.  "You  wouldn't 
mind  my  having  a  second  after  you  were  gone — not  if  I 
cried  a  good  deal  first  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  take  a  cup  o'  tea  and  stop  your  tongue, 
do,"  said  good-humoured  Mrs.  Kimble,  feeling  some  pride 
in  a  husband  who  must  be  regarded  as  so  clever  and  amus- 
ing by  the  company  generally.  If  he  had  only  not  been 
irritable  at  cards  ! 

While  safe,  well-tested  personalities  were  enlivening  the 
tea  in  this  Avay,  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  approaching  within 
a  distance  at  which  it  could  be  heard  distinctly,  made  the 
young  people  look  at  each  other  with  sympathetic  impa- 
tience for  the  end  of  the  meal. 

"  Why,  there's  Solomon  in  the  hall,"  said  the  Squire, 
•'  and  playing  my  fav'rite  tune,  /  believe — *  The  flaxen- 
headed  ploughboy ' — he's  for  giving  us  a  hint  as  we  aren't 
enough  in  a  hurry  to  hear  him  play.  Bob,"  he  called  out 
to  his  third  long-legged  son,  who  was  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  "  open  the  door,  and  tell  Solomon  to  come  in. 
He  shall  give  us  a  tune  here." 

Bob  obeyed,   and   Solomon  walked  in,  fiddling  as  he 


128  SILAS  MARKER 

walked,  for  he  would  on  no  account  break  off  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  tune. 

"  Here,  Solomon/'  said  the  Squire,  with  loud  patronage. 
"  Hound  here,  my  man.  Ah,  I  knew  it  was  '  The  flaxen- 
headed  ploughboy  : '  there's  no  finer  tune." 

Solomon  Macey,  a  small  hale  old  man,  with  an  abundant 
crop  of  long  white  hair  reaching  nearly  to  his  shoulders, 
advanced  to  the  indicated  spot,  bowing  reverently  while  he 
fiddled,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  respected  the  company 
though  he  respected  the  key-note  more.  As  soon  as  he  had 
repeated  the  tune  and  lowered  his  fiddle,  he  bowed  again 
to  the  Squire  and  the  Rector,  and  said,  "  I  hope  I  see 
your  honour  and  your  reverence  well,  and  wishing  you 
health  and  long  life  and  a  happy  New  Year.  And  wish- 
ing the  same  to  you,  Mr.  Lammeter,  sir  ;  and  to  the  other 
gentlemen,  and  the  madams,  and  the  young  lasses." 

As  Solomon  uttered  the  last  words,  he  bowed  in  all  di- 
rections solicitously,  lest  he  should  be  wanting  in  due  re- 
spect. But  thereupon  he  immediately  began  to  prelude, 
and  fell  into  the  tune  which  he  knew  would  be  taken  as  a 
special  compliment  by  Mr.  Lammeter. 

"  Thank  ye,  Solomon,  thank  ye,"  said  Mr.  Lammeter 
when  the  fiddle  paused  again.  "  That's  '  Over  the  hills 
and  far  away,'1  that  is.  My  father  used  to  say  to  me, 
whenever  we  heard  that  tune,  '  Ah,  lad,  /  come  from  over 
the  hills  and  far  away.'  There's  a  many  tunes  I  don't 
make  head  or  tail  of ;  but  that  speaks  to  me  like  the 
blackbird's  whistle.  I  suppose  it's  the  name  :  there's  a 
deal  in  the  name  of  a  tune." 

But  Solomon  was  already  impatient  to  prelude  again, 
and  presently  broke  with  much  spirit  into  "  Sir  Eoger  de 
Coverley,"2  at  which  there  was  a  sound  of  chairs  pushed 
back,  and  laughing  voices. 

1  A  familiar  eighteenth -century  tune.  See  Gay,  Beggar's  Opera, 
Act  I.,  Scene  1. 

8  A  favorite  old  fashioned  English  country  dance,  so-called  from  the 
Sir  Roger  of  the  Spectator  papers. 


SILAS  MARNER  129 

"  Ay,  ay,  Solomon,  we  know  what  that  means,"  said  the 
Squire,  rising.  "  It's  time  to  begin  the  dance,  eh  ?  Lead 
the  way,  then,  and  we'll  all  follow  you." 

So  Solomon,  holding  his  white  head  on  one  side,  and 
playing  vigorously,  marched  forward  afc,  the  head  of  the 
gay  procession  into  the  White  Parlour,  where  the  mistletoe- 
bough  was  hung,  and  multitudinous  tallow  candles  made 
rather  a  brilliant  effect,  gleaming  from  among  the  ber- 
ried holly-boughs,  and  reflected  in  the  old-fashioned  oval 
mirrors  fastened  in  the  panels  of  the  white  wainscot.  A 
quaint  procession  !  Old  Solomon,  in  his  seedy  clothes  and 
long  white  locks,  seemed  to  be  luring  that  decent  company 
oy  the  magic  scream  of  his  fiddle — luring  discreet  matrons 
in  turban-shaped  caps,  nay,  Mrs.  Crackenthorp  herself, 
the  summit  of  whose  perpendicular  feather  was  on  a  level 
with  the  Squire's  shoulder — luring  fair  lasses  complacently 
conscious  of  very  short  waists  and  skirts  blameless  of  front- 
folds — luring  burly  fathers  in  large  variegated  waistcoats, 
and  ruddy  sons,  for  the  most  part  shy  and  sheepish,  in 
short  nether  garments  J  and  very  long  coat-tails. 

Already  Mr.  Macey  and  a  few  other  privileged  villagers, 
who  were  allowed  to  be  spectators  on  these  great  occa- 
sions, were  seated  on  benches  placed  for  them  near  the 
door  ;  and  great  was  the  admiration  and  satisfaction  in 
that  quarter  when  the  couples  had  formed  themselves  for 
the  dance,  and  the  Squire  led  off  with  Mrs.  Crackenthorp, 
joining  hands  with  the  Rector  and  Mrs.  Osgood.  That 
was  as  it  should  be — that  was  what  everybody  had  been 
used  to — and  the  charter2  of  Raveloe  seemed  to  be  re- 
newed by  the  ceremony.  It  was  not  thought  of  as  an  un- 
becoming levity  for  the  old  and  middle-aged  people  to 
dance  a  little  before  sitting  down  to  cards,  but  rather  as 
part  of  their  social  duties.  For  what  were  these  if  not  to 

1  Breeches. 

2  Charters,  or  grants   of  privileges,  were  given  by   sovereigns  to 
towns,  colleges,  and  other  corporations  ;  they  were  liable  to  renewal 
from  time  to  time. 

9 


130  SILAS  MARNER 

be  merry  at  appropriate  times,  interchanging  visits  and 
poultry  with  due  frequency,  paying  each  other  old-estab- 
lished compliments  in  sound  traditional  phrases,  passing 
well-tried  personal  jokes,  urging  your  guests  to  eat  and 
drink  too  much  out  of  hospitality,  and  eating  and  drink- 
ing too  much  in  your  neighbour's  house  to  show  that  you 
liked  your  cheer  ?  And  the  parson  naturally  set  an  exam- 
ple in  these  social  duties.  For  it  would  not  have  been 
possible  for  the  Raveloe  mind,  without  a  peculiar  revela- 
tion, to  know  that  a  clergyman  should  be  a  pale-faced  me- 
mento of  solemnities,  instead  of  a  reasonably  faulty  man 
whose  exclusive  authority  to  read  prayers  and  preach,  to 
christen,  marry,  and  bury  you,  necessarily  coexisted  with 
the  right  to  sell  you  the  ground  to  be  buried  in  and  to 
take  tithe  in  kind  ; 1  on  which  last  point,  of  course,  there 
was  a  little  grumbling,  but  not  to  the  extent  of  irreligion 
— not  of  deeper  significance  than  the  grumbling  at  the 
rain,  which  was  by  no  means  accompanied  with  a  spirit  of 
impious  defiance,  but  with  a  desire  that  the  prayer  for 
fine  weather  might  be  read  forthwith. 

There  was  no  reason,  then,  why  the  rector's  dancing 
should  not  be  received  as  part  of  the  fitness  of  things 
quite  as  much  as  the  Squire's,  or  why,  on  the  other  hand, 
Mr.  Macey's  official  respect  should  restrain  him  from  sub- 
jecting the  parson's  performance  to  that  criticism  with 
which  minds  of  extraordinary  acuteness  must  necessarily 
contemplate  the  doings  of  their  fallible  fellow-men. 

"  The  Squire's  pretty  springe,2  considering  his  weight," 
said  Mr.  Macey,  "and  he  stamps  uncommon  well.  But 
Mr.  Lammeter  beats  'em  all  for  shapes  :  you  see  he  holds 
his  head  like  a  sodger,3  and  he  isn't  so  cushiony  as  most  o' 
the  oldish  gentlefolks — they  run  fat  in  general ;  and  he's 
got  a  fine  leg.  The  parson's  nimble  enough,  but  he  hasn't 

1  "  To  take  tithe  in  kind,"  i.e.,  to  receive  church  taxes  in  farmers' 
produce. 

2  Lively,  active  ;  a  provincial  word. 

3  Soldier. 


SILAS  MARNER  131 

got  much  of  a  leg  :  it's  a  bit  too  thick  down'ard,  and  his 
knees  might  be  a  bit  nearer  wi'out  damage  ;  but  he  might 
do  worse,  he  might  do  worse.  Though  he  hasn't  that 
grand  way  o'  waving  his  hand  as  the  Squire  has." 

"  Talk  o'  nimbleness,  look  at  Mrs.  Osgood,"  said  Ben 
Winthrop,  who  was  holding  his  son  Aaron  between  his 
knees.  "  She  trips  along  with  her  little  steps,  so  as  no- 
body can  see  how  she  goes — it's  like  as  if  she  had  little 
wheels  to  her  feet.  She  doesn't  look  a  day  older  nor  last 
year  :  she's  the  finest-made  woman  as  is,  let  the  next  be 
where  she  will." 

"I  don't  heed  how  the  women  are  made,"  said  Mr. 
Macey,  with  some  contempt.  "They  wear  nayther  coat 
nor  breeches  »  you  can't  make  much  out  o'  their  shapes." 

"  Fayder,"  said  Aaron,  whose  feet  were  busy  beating 
out  the  tune,  "  how  does  that  big  cock's-feather  stick  in 
Mrs.  Crackenthorp's  yead  ?  Is  there  a  little  hole  for  it, 
like  in  my  shuttle-cock  ?  " 

"  Hush,  lad,  hush  ;  that's  the  way  the  ladies  dress  their- 
selves,  that  is,"  said  the  father,  adding,  however,  in  an 
under-tone  to  Mr.  Macey,  "  It  does  make  her  look  funny, 
though — partly  like  a  short-necked  bottle  wi'  a  long  quill 
in  it.  Hey,  by  jingo,  there's  the  young  Squire  leading  off 
now,  wi'  Miss  Nancy  for  partners  !  There's  a  lass  for  you  ! 
— like  a  pink-and- white  posy — there's  nobody  'ud  think  as 
anybody  could  be  so  pritty.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she's 
Madam  Cass  some  day,  arter  all — and  nobody  more  right- 
fuller,  for  they'd  make  a  fine  match.  You  can  find  noth- 
ing against  Master  Godfrey's  shapes,  Macey,  I'll  bet  a 
penny." 

Mr.  Macey  screwed  up  his  mouth,  leaned  his  head  fur- 
ther on  one  side,  and  twirled  his  thumbs  with  a  presto 
movement  as  his  eyes  followed  Godfrey  up  the  dance.  At 
last  he  summed  up  his  opinion. 

"  Pretty  well  down'ard,  but  a  bit  too  round  i*  the  shoul- 
der-blades. And  as  for  them  coats  as  he  gets  from  the 
Fl.'ttor  tailor,  they're  a  poor  cut  to  pay  double  money  for." 


132  SILAS  MARNER 

"Ah,  Mr.  Macey,  you  and  me  are  two  folks,"  said  Ben, 
slightly  indignant  at  this  carping.  "  When  I've  got  a  pot 
o'  good  ale,  I  like  to  swaller  it,  and  do  my  inside  good, 
i'stead  o'  smelling  and  staring  at  it  to  see  if  I  can't  find 
faut  wi'  the  brewing.  I  should  like  you  to  pick  me  out  a 
finer-limbed  young  fellow  nor  Master  Godfrey — one  as  'ud 
knock  you  down  easier,  or  's  more  pleasanter  looksed  when 
he's  piert l  and  merry." 

"  Tchuh  !"  said  Mr.  Macey,  provoked  to  increased  se- 
verity, "  he  isn't  come  to  his  right  colour  yet :  he's  partly 
like  a  slack-baked  pie.  And  I  doubt  he's  got  a  soft  place 
in  his  head,  else  why  should  he  be  turned  round  the  finger 
by  that  offal 2  Dunsey  as  nobody's  seen  o'  late,  and  let  him 
kill  that  fine  hunting  hoss  as  was  the  talk  o'  the  country  ? 
And  one  while  he  was  allays  after  Miss  Nancy,  and  then  it 
all  went  off  again,  like  a  smell  o'  hot  porridge,  as  I  may 
say.  That  wasn't  my  way  when  /  went  a-coorting." 

"  Ah,  but  mayhap  Miss  Nancy  hung  off  like,  and  your 
lass  didn't,"  said  Ben. 

"I  should  say  she  didn't,"  said  Mr.  Macey,  signifi- 
cantly. "  Before  I  said  '  sniff,'  I  took  care  to  know  as 
she'd  say  'snaff,'  and  pretty  quick  too.  I  wasn't  a-going 
to  open  my  mouth,  like  a  dog  at  a  fly,  and  snap  it  to  again, 
wi'  nothing  to  swaller." 

"  Well,  I  think  Miss  Nancy's  a-coming  round  again," 
said  Ben,  ' '  for  Master  Godfrey  doesn't  look  so  down-hearted 
to-night.  And  I  see  he's  for  taking  her  away  to  sit  down, 
now  they're  at  the  end  o'  the  dance  :  that  looks  like  sweet- 
hearting,  that  does." 

The  reason  why  Godfrey  and  Nancy  had  left  the  dance 
was  not  so  tender  as  Ben  imagined.  In  the  close  press  of 
couples  a  slight  accident  had  happened  to  Nancy's  dress, 
which,  while  it  was  short  enough  to  show  her  neat  ankle 
in  front,  was  long  enough  behind  to  be  caught  under  the 
stately  stamp  of  the  Squire's  foot,  so  as  to  rend  certain 

1  Pert,  in  its  literal  meaning  of  "  lively." 
*  Offensive  rubbish. 


SILAS  MARNER  133 

stitches  at  the  waist,  and  cause  much  sisterly  agitation  in 
Priscilla's  mind,  as  well  as  serious  concern  in  Nancy's. 
One's  thoughts  may  be  much  occupied  with  love-struggles, 
but  hardly  so  as  to  be  insensible  to  a  disorder  in  the  gen- 
eral framework  of  things.  Nancy  had  no  sooner  completed 
her  duty  in  the  figure  they  were  dancing  than  she  said  to 
Godfrey,  with  a  deep  blush,  that  she  must  go  and  sit  down 
till  Priscilla  could  come  to  her  ;  for  the  sisters  had  already 
exchanged  a  short  whisper  and  an  open-eyed  glance  full  of 
meaning.  No  reason  less  urgent  than  this  could  have  pre- 
vailed on  Nancy  to  give  Godfrey  this  opportunity  of  sit- 
ting apart  with  her.  As  for  Godfrey,  he  was  feeling  so 
happy  and  oblivious  under  the  long  charm  of  the  country- 
dance  with  Nancy,  that  he  got  rather  bold  on  the  strength 
of  her  confusion,  and  was  capable  of  leading  her  straight 
away,  without  leave  asked,  into  the  adjoining  small  par- 
lour, where  the  card-tables  were  set. 

"  0  no,  thank  you,"  said  Nancy,  coldly,  as  soon  as  she 
perceived  where  he  was  going,  "  not  in  there.  I'll  wait 
here  till  Priscilla's  ready  to  come  to  me.  I'm  sorry  to 
bring  you  out  of  the  dance  and  make  myself  trouble- 
some." 

"Why,  you'll  be  more  comfortable  here  by  yourself," 
said  the  artful  Godfrey  :  "I'll  leave  you  here  till  your  sis- 
ter can  come."  He  spoke  in  an  indifferent  tone. 

That  was  an  agreeable  proposition,  and  just  what  Nancy 
desired ;  why,  then,  was  she  a  little  hurt  that  Mr.  God- 
frey should  make  it  ?  They  entered,  and  she  seated  her- 
self on  a  chair  against  one  of  the  card-tables,  as  the  stiffest 
and  most  unapproachable  position  she  could  choose. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said  immediately.  "  I  needn't 
give  you  any  more  trouble.  I'm  sorry  you've  had  such  an 
unlucky  partner." 

"  That's  very  ill-natured  of  you,"  said  Godfrey,  standing 
by  her  without  any  sign  of  intended  departure,  "  to  be 
sorry  you've  danced  with  me." 

"  Oh  no,  sir,  I  don't  mean  to  say  what's  ill-natured  at 


134=  SILAS  MARKER 

all,"  said  Nancy,  looking  distractingly  prim  and  pretty. 
"  When  gentlemen  have  so  many  pleasures,  one  dance  can 
matter  but  very  little." 

"  You  know  that  isn't  true.  You  know  one  dance  with 
you  matters  more  to  me  than  all  the  other  pleasures  in  the 
world." 

It  was  a  long,  long  while  since  Godfrey  had  said  any- 
thing so  direct  as  that,  and  Nancy  was  startled.  But  her 
instinctive  dignity  and  repugnance  to  any  show  of  emotion 
made  her  sit  perfectly  still,  and  only  throw  a  little  more 
decision  into  her  voice,  as  she  said — 

"  No,  indeed,  Mr.  Godfrey,  that's  not  known  to  me,  and 
I  have  very  good  reasons  for  thinking  different.  But  if 
it's  true,  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it." 

"  Would  you  never  forgive  me,  then,  Nancy — never 
think  well  of  me,  let  what  would  happen — would  you 
never  think  the  present  made  amends  for  the  past  ?  Not 
if  I  turned  a  good  fellow,  and  gave  up  everything  you 
didn't  like?" 

Godfrey  was  half  conscious  that  this  sudden  opportunity 
of  speaking  to  Nancy  alone  had  driven  him  beside  himself  ; 
but  blind  feeling  had  got  the  mastery  of  his  tongue. 
Nancy  really  felt  much  agitated  by  the  possibility  God- 
frey's words  suggested,  but  this  very  pressure  of  emotion 
that  she  was  in  danger  of  finding  too  strong  for  her  roused 
all  her  power  of  self-command. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  see  a  good  change  in  anybody,  Mr. 
Godfrey,"  she  answered,  with  the  slightest  discernible  dif- 
ference of  tone,  "but  it  'ud  be  better  if  no  change  was 
wanted." 

"  You're  very  hard-hearted,  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey,  pet- 
tishly. "  You  might  encourage  me  to  be  a  better  fellow. 
I'm  very  miserable — but  you've  no  feeling." 

"  I  think  those  have  the  least  feeling  that  act  wrong  to 
begin  with,"  said  Nancy,  sending  out  a  flash  in  spite  of 
herself.  Godfrey  was  delighted  with  that  little  flash,  and 
would  have  liked  to  go  on  and  make  her  quarrel  with  him; 


SILAS  MARNER  135 

Nancy  was  so  exasperatingly  quiet  and  firm.  But  she  was 
not  indifferent  to  him  yet. 

The  entrance  of  Priscilla,  bustling  forward  and  saying, 
"  Dear  heart  alive,  child,  let  us  look  at  this  gown/'  cut 
off  Godfrey's  hopes  of  a  quarrel. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  now,"  he  said  to  Priscilla. 

"  It's  no  matter  to  me  whether  you  go  or  stay,"  said 
that  frank  lady,  searching  for  something  in  her  pocket, 
with  a  preoccupied  brow. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?  "  said  Godfrey,  looking  at 
Nancy,  who  was  now  standing  up  by  Priscilla's  order. 

"  As  you  like,"  said  Nancy,  trying  to  recover  all  her 
former  coldness,  and  looking  down  carefully  at  the  hem 
of  her  gown. 

"  Then  I  like  to  stay,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  reckless  de- 
termination to  get  as  much  of  this  joy  as  he  could  to-night, 
and  think  nothing  of  the  morrow. 

The  novelist  is  at  her  best  in  the  description  of  the  social  life  of  the 
small  village  in  the  early  part  of  the  century.  By  what  means  is  the 
plot  interest  increased  in  this  chapter  ?  What  qualities  does  Miss 
Lammeter  show  that  are  specially  attractive  to  Godfrey  Cass  ?  For 
what  purpose  are  the  villagers  introduced  at  the  festivities  ?  After  the 
student  has  read  the  next  chapter,  he  should  note  how  the  dramatic  in- 
terest of  the  story  is  maintained  by  this  scene  at  the  Red  House. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHILE  Godfrey  Cass  was  taking  draughts  of  forgetfulness 
from  the  sweet  presence  of  Nancy,  willingly  losing  all 
sense  of  that  hidden  bond  which  at  other  moments  galled 
and  fretted  him  so  as  to  mingle  irritation  with  the  very 
sunshine,  Godfrey's  wife  was  walking  with  slow  uncertain 
steps  through  the  snow-covered  Raveloe  lanes,  carrying 
her  child  in  her  arms. 

This  journey  on  New  Year's  Eve  was  a  premeditated 
act  of  vengeance  which  she  had  kept  in  her  heart  ever 
since  Godfrey,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  had  told  her  he  would 
sooner  die  than  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife.  There  would 
be  a  great  party  at  the  Red  House  on  New  Year's  Eve,  she 
knew :  her  husband  would  be  smiling  and  smiled  upon, 
hiding  her  existence  in  the  darkest  corner  of  his  heart. 
But  she  would  mar  his  pleasure  :  she  would  go  in  her 
dingy  rags,  with  her  faded  face,  once  as  handsome  as  the 
best,  with  her  little  child  that  had  its  father's  hair  and 
eyes,  and  disclose  herself  to  the  Squire  as  his  eldest  son's 
wife.  It  is  seldom  that  the  miserable  can  help  regarding 
their  misery  as  a  wrong  inflicted  by  those  who  are  less 
miserable.  Molly  knew  that  the  cause  of  her  dingy  rags 
was  not  her  husband's  neglect,  but  the  demon  Opium  to 
whom  she  was  enslaved,  body  and  soul,  except  in  the  lin- 
gering mother's  tenderness  that  refused  to  give  him  her 
hungry  child.  She  knew  this  well ;  and  yet,  in  the  mo- 
ments of  wretched  unbenumbed  consciousness,  the  sense 
of  her  want  and  degradation  transformed  itself  continually 
into  bitterness  towards  Godfrey.  He  was  well  off ;  and  if 
she  had  her  rights  she  would  be  well  off  too.  The  belief 
that  he  repented  his  marriage,  and  suffered  from  it,  only 


SILAS  MARNER  137 

aggravated  her  vindictiveness.  Just  and  self-reproving 
thoughts  do  not  come  to  us  too  thickly,  even  in  the  purest 
air  and  with  the  best  lessons  of  heaven  arid  earth ;  how 
should  those  white-winged  delicate  messengers  make  their 
way  to  Molly's  poisoned  chamber,,  inhabited  by  no  higher 
memories  than  those  of  a  barmaid's 1  paradise  of  pink  rib- 
bons and  gentlemen's  jokes  ? 

She  had  set  out  at  an  early  hour,  but  had  lingered  on  the 
road,  inclined  by  her  indolence  to  believe  that  if  she  waited 
under  a  warm  shed  the  snow  would  cease  to  fall.  She  had 
waited  longer  than  she  knew,  and  now  that  she  found  her- 
self 'belated  in  the  snow-hidden  ruggedness  of  the  long 
lanes,  even  the  animation  of  a  vindictive  purpose  could 
not  keep  her  spirit  from  failing.  It  was  seven  o'clock,  and 
by  this  time  she  was  not  very  far  from  Raveloe,  but  she 
was  not  familiar  enough  with  those  monotonous  lanes  to 
know  how  near  she  was  to  her  journey's  end.  She  needed 
comfort,  and  she  knew  but  one  comforter — the  familiar 
demon  in  her  bosom;  but  she  hesitated  a  moment,  after 
drawing  out  the  black  remnant,  before  she  raised  it  to  her 
lips.  In  that  moment  the  mother's  love  pleaded  for  pain- 
ful consciousness  rather  than  oblivion — pleaded  to  be  left 
in  aching  weariness,  rather  than  to  have  the  encircling 
arms  benumbed  so  that  they  could  not  feel  the  dear  bur- 
den. In  another  moment  Molly  had  flung  something 
away,  but  it  was  not  the  black  remnant — it  was  an  empty 
phial.  And  she  walked  on  again  under  the  breaking 
cloud,  from  which  there  came  now  and  then  the  light  of  a 
quickly  veiled  star,  for  a  freezing  wind  had  sprung  up 
since  the  snowing  had  ceased.  But  she  walked  always 
more  and  more  drowsily,  and  clutched  more  and  more  auto- 
matically the  sleeping  child  at  her  bosom. 

Slowly  the  demon  was  working  his  will,  and  cold  and 
weariness  were  his  helpers.  Soon  she  felt  nothing  but  a 
supreme  immediate  longing  that  curtained  off  all  futurity 

1  In  the  English  inn  or  public-house  (the  American  saloon)  the 
bartender's  duties  are  performed  by  a  young  woman. 


138  SILAS  MARNER 

— the  longing  to  lie  down  and  sleep.  She  had  arrived  at  a 
spot  where  her  footsteps  were  no  longer  checked  by  a 
hedgerow,  and  she  had  wandered  vaguely,  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish any  objects,  notwithstanding  the  wide  whiteness 
around  her,  and  the  growing  starlight.  She  sank  down 
against  a  straggling  furze  l  bush,  an  easy  pillow  enough  ; 
and  the  bed  of  snow,  too,  was  soft.  She  did  not  feel  that 
the  bed  was  cold,  and  did  not  heed  whether  the  child 
would  wake  and  cry  for  her.  But  her  arms  had  not  yet 
relaxed  their  instinctive  clutch  ;  and  the  little  one  slum- 
bered on  as  gently  as  if  it  had  been  rocked  in  a  lace- 
trimmed  cradle. 

But  the  complete  torpor  came  at  last  :  the  fingers  lost 
their  tension,  the  arms  unbent ;  then  the  little  head  fell 
away  from  the  bosom,  and  the  blue  eyes  opened  wide  on 
the  cold  starlight.  At  first  there  was  a  little  peevish  cry 
of  "  mammy,"  and  an  effort  to  regain  the  pillowing  arm 
and  bosom  ;  but  mammy's  ear  was  deaf,  and  the  pillow 
seemed  to  be  slipping  away  backward.  Suddenly,  as  the 
child  rolled  downward  on  its  mother's  knees,  all  wet  with 
snow,  its  eyes  were  caught  by  a  bright  glancing  light  on 
the  white  ground,  and,  with  the  ready  transition  of  in- 
fancy,2 it  was  immediately  absorbed  in  watching  the  bright 
living  thing  running  towards  it,  yet  never  arriving.  That 
bright  living  thing  must  be  caught ;  and  in  an  instant  the 
child  had  slipped  on  all  fours,  and  held  out  one  little  hand 
to  catch  the  gleam.  But  the  gleam  would  not  be  caught 
in  that  way,  and  now  the  head  was  held  up  to  see  where 
the  cunning  gleam  came  from.  It  came  from  a  very  bright 
place  ;  and  the  little  one,  rising  on  its  legs,  toddled  through 
the  snow,  the  old  grimy  shawl  in  which  it  was  wrapped 
trailing  behind  it,  and  the  queer  little  bonnet  dangling  at 
its  back — toddled  on  to  the  open  door  of  Silas  Marner's 
cottage,  and  right  up  to  the  warm  hearth,  where  there  was 

1  A  shrub,  common  in  England,  that  does  not  grow  wild  in  this 
country. 

3  "The  ready  transition  of  infancy,"  a  compressed  phrase. 


SILAS  MARNER  139 

a  bright  fire  of  logs  and  sticks,  which  had  thoroughly 
warmed  the  old.  sack  (Silas's  greatcoat)  spread  out  on  the 
bricks  to  dry.  The  little  one,  accustomed  to  be  left  to  it- 
self for  long  hours  without  notice  from  its  mother,  squatted 
down  on  the  sack,  and  spread  its  tiny  hands  towards  the 
blaze,  in  perfect  contentment,  gurgling  and  making  many 
inarticulate  communications  to  the  cheerful  fire,  like  a 
new-hatched  gosling  beginning  to  find  itself  comfortable. 
But  presently  the  warmth  had  a  lulling  effect,  and  the  lit- 
tle golden  head  sank  down  on  the  old  sack,  and  the  blue 
eyes  were  veiled  by  their  delicate  half-transparent  lids. 

But  where  was  Silas  Marner  while  this  strange  visitor 
had  come  to  his  hearth  ?  He  was  in  the  cottage,  but  he 
did  not  see  the  child.  During  the  last  few  weeks,  since  he 
had  lost  his  money,  he  had  contracted  the  habit  of  opening 
his  door  and  looking  out  from  time  to  time,  as  if  he  thought 
that  his  money  might  be  somehow  coming  back  to  him,  or 
that  some  trace,  some  news  of  it,  might  be  mysteriously  on 
the  road,  and  be  caught  by  the  listening  ear  or  the  strain- 
ing eye.  It  was  chiefly  at  night,  when  he  was  not  occupied 
in  his  loom,  that  he  fell  into  this  repetition  of  an  act  for 
which  he  could  have  assigned  no  definite  purpose,  and 
which  can  hardly  be  understood  except  by  those  who  have 
undergone  a  bewildering  separation  from  a  supremely  loved 
object.  In  the  evening  twilight,  and  later  whenever  the 
night  was  not  dark,  Silas  looked  out  on  that  narrow  pros- 
pect round  the  Stone-pits,  listening  and  gazing,  not  with 
hope,  but  with  mere  yearning  and  unrest. 

This  morning  he  had  been  told  by  some  of  his  neighbours 
that  it  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  that  he  must  sit  up  and 
hear  the  old  year  rung  out  and  the  new  rung  in,  because 
that  was  good  luck,  and  might  bring  his  money  back  again. 
This  was  only  a  friendly  Raveloe-way  of  jesting  with  the 
half-crazy  oddities  of  a  miser,  but  it  had  perhaps  helped  to 
throw  Silas  into  a  more  than  usually  excited  state.  Since 
the  on-coming  of  twilight  he  had  opened  his  door  again  and 
again,  though  only  to  shut  it  immediately  at  seeing  all  dis- 


140  SILAS  MARNER 

tance  veiled  by  the  falling  snow.  But  the  last  time  he 
opened  it  the  snow  had  ceased,  and  the  clouds  were  parting 
here  and  there.  He  stood  and  listened,  and  gazed  for  a 
long  while — there  was  really  something  on  the  road  coming 
towards  him  then,  but  he  caught  no  sign  of  it ;  and  the 
stillness  and  the  wide  trackless  snow  seemed  to  narrow  his 
solitude,  and  touched  his  yearning  with  the  chill  of  despair. 
He  went  in  again,  and  put  his  right  hand  on  the  latch  of 
the  door  to  close  it — but  he  did  not  close  it :  he  was  ar- 
rested, as  he  had  been  already  since  his  loss,  by  the  invisible 
wand  of  catalepsy,  and  stood  like  a  graven  image,  with  wide 
but  sightless  eyes,  holding  open  his  door,  powerless  to  re- 
sist either  the  good  or  evil  that  might  enter  there. 

When  Marner's  sensibility  returned,  he  continued  the 
action  which  had  been  arrested,  and  closed  his  door,  un- 
aware of  the  chasm  in  his  consciousness,  unaware  of  any 
intermediate  change,  except  that  the  light  had  grown  dim, 
and  that  he  was  chilled  and  faint.  He  thought  he  had  been 
too  long  standing  at  the  door  and  looking  out.  Turning 
towards  the  hearth,  where  the  two  logs  had  fallen  apart, 
and  sent  forth  only  a  red  uncertain  glimmer,  he  seated  him- 
self on  his  fireside  chair,  and  was  stooping  to  push  his  logs 
together,  when,  to  his  blurred  vision,  it  seemed  as  if  there 
were  gold  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  hearth.  Gold  ! — his 
own  gold — brought  back  to  him  as  mysteriously  as  it  had 
been  taken  away  !  He  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat  violently, 
and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  unable  to  stretch  out  his 
hand  and  grasp  the  restored  treasure.  The  heap  of  gold 
seemed  to  glow  and  get  larger  beneath  his  agitated  gaze. 
He  leaned  forward  at  last,  and  stretched  forth  his  hand  ; 
but  instead  of  the  hard  coin  with  the  familiar  resisting  out- 
line, his  fingers  encountered  soft  warm  curls.  In  utter 
amazement,  Silas  fell  on  his  knees  and  bent  his  head  low 
to  examine  the  marvel :  it  was  a  sleeping  child — a  round, 
fair  thing,  with  soft  yellow  rings  all  over  its  head.  Could 
this  be  his  little  sister  come  back  to  him  in  a  dream — his 
little  sister  whom  he  had  carried  about  in  his  arms  for  a 


SILAS  MARNER  141 

year  before  she  died,  when  he  was  a  small  boy  without 
shoes  or  stockings  ?  That  was  the  first  thought  that  darted 
across  Silas's  blank  wonderment.  Was  it  a  dream  ?  He 
rose  to  his  feet  again,  pushed  his  logs  together,  and,  throw- 
ing on  some  dried  leaves  and  sticks,  raised  a  flame  ;  but  the 
flame  did  not  disperse  the  vision — it  only  lit  up  more  dis- 
tinctly the  little  round  form  of  the  child,  and  its  shabby 
clothing.  It  was  very  much  like  his  little  sister.  Silas 
sank  into  his  chair  powerless,  under  the  double  presence  of 
an  inexplicable  surprise  and  a  hurrying  influx  of  memories. 
How  and  when  had  the  child  come  in  without  his  knowl- 
edge ?  He  had  never  been  beyond  the  door.  But  along 
with  that  question,  and  almost  thrusting  it  away,  there  was 
a  vision  of  the  old  home  and  the  old  streets  leading  to 
Lantern  Yard — and  within  that  vision  another,  of  the 
thoughts  which  had  been  present  with  him  in  those  far-off 
scenes.  The  thoughts  were  strange  to  him  now,  like  old 
friendships  impossible  to  revive  ;  and  yet  he  had  a  dreamy 
feeling  that  this  child  was  somehow  a  message  come  to  him 
from  that  far-off  life  :  it  stirred  fibres  that  had  never  been 
moved  in  Raveloe — old  quiverings  of  tenderness — old  im- 
pressions of  awe  at  the  presentiment  of  some  Power  pre- 
siding over  his  life  ;  for  his  imagination  had  not  yet  extri- 
cated itself  from  the  sense  of  mystery  in  the  child's  sudden 
presence,  and  had  formed  no  conjectures  of  ordinary  nat- 
ural means  by  which  the  event  could  have  been  brought 
about. 

But  there  was  a  cry  on  the  hearth  :  the  child  had  awaked, 
and  Marner  stooped  to  lift  it  on  his  knee.  It  clung 
round  his  neck,  and  burst  louder  and  louder  into  that 
mingling  of  inarticulate  cries  with  "mammy "by  which 
little  children  express  the  bewilderment  of  waking.  Silas 
pressed  it  to  him,  and  almost  unconsciously  uttered  sounds 
of  hushing  tenderness,  while  he  bethought  himself  that 
some  of  his  porridge,  which  had  got  cool  by  the  dying  fire, 
would  do  to  feed  the  child  with  if  it  were  only  warmed  up 
a  little. 


142  SILAS  MARNER 

He  had  plenty  to  do  through  the  next  hour.  The  por- 
ridge, sweetened  with  some  dry  brown  sugar  from  an  old 
store  which  he  had  refrained  from  using  for  himself,  stopped 
the  cries  of  the  little  one,  and  made  her  lift  her  blue  eyes 
with  a  wide  quiet  gaze  at  Silas,  as  he  put  the  spoon  into 
her  mouth.  Presently  she  slipped  from  his  knee  and  be- 
gan to  toddle  about,  but  with  a  pretty  stagger  that  made 
Silas  jump  up  and  follow  her  lest  she  should  fall  against 
anything  that  would  hurt  her.  But  she  only  fell  in  a  sit- 
ting posture  on  the  ground,  and  began  to  pull  at  her  boots, 
looking  up  at  him  with  a  crying  face  as  if  the  boots  hurt 
her.  He  took  her  on  his  knee  again,  but  it  was  some  time 
before  it  occurred  to  Silas's  dull  bachelor  mind  that  the 
wet  boots  were  the  grievance,  pressing  on  her  warm  ankles. 
He  got  them  off  with  difficulty,  and  baby  was  at  once  hap- 
pily occupied  with  the  primary  mystery  of  her  own  toes, 
inviting  Silas,  with  much  chuckling,  to  consider  the  mys- 
tery too.  But  the  wet  boots  had  at  last  suggested  to  Silas 
that  the  child  had  been  walking  on  the  snow,  and  this 
roused  him  from  his  entire  oblivion  of  any  ordinary  means 
by  which  it  could  have  entered  or  been  brought  into  his 
house.  Under  the  prompting  of  this  new  idea,  and  with- 
out waiting  to  form  conjectures,  he  raised  the  child  in  his 
arms,  and  went  to  the  door.  As  soon  as  he  had  opened  it, 
there  was  the  cry  of  " mammy"  again,  which  Silas  had  not 
heard  since  the  child's  first  hungry  waking.  Bending  for- 
ward, he  could  just  discern  the  marks  made  by  the  little 
feet  on  the  virgin  snow,  and  he  followed  their  track  to  the 
furze  bushes.  "  Mammy  !  "  the  little  one  cried  again  and 
again,  stretching  itself  forward  so  as  almost  to  escape  from 
Silas's  arms,  before  he  himself  was  aware  that  there  Avas 
something  more  than  the  bush  before  him — that  there  was 
a  human  body,  with  the  head  sunk  low  in  the  furze,  and 
half-covered  with  the  shaken  snow. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  after  the  early  supper-time  at  the  Red  House,  and 
the  entertainment  was  in  that  stage  when  bashfulness  it- 
self had  passed  into  easy  jollity,  when  gentlemen,  con- 
scious of  unusual  accomplishments,  could  at  length  be 
prevailed  on  to  dance  a  hornpipe,  and  when  the  Squire 
preferred  talking  loudly,  scattering  snuff,  and  patting  his 
visitors'  backs,  to  sitting  longer  at  the  whist-table  —  a 
choice  exasperating  to  Uncle  Kimble,  who,  being  always 
volatile  in  sober  business  hours,  became  intense  and  bitter 
over  cards  and  brandy,  shuffled  before  his  adversary's  deal 
with  a  glare  of  suspicion,  and  turned  up  a  mean  trump- 
card  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  disgust,  as  if  in  a  world 
where  such  things  could  happen  one  might  as  well  enter 
on  a  course  of  reckless  profligacy.  When  the  evening  had 
advanced  to  this  pitch  of  freedom  and  enjoyment,  it  was 
usual  for  the  servants,  the  heavy  duties  of  supper  being 
well  over,  to  get  their  share  of  amusement  by  coming  to 
look  on  at  the  dancing ;  so  that  the  back  regions  of  the 
house  were  left  in  solitude. 

There  were  two  doors  by  which  the  White  Parlour  was 
entered  from  the  hall,  and  they  were  both  standing  open 
for  the  sake  of  air ;  but  the  lower  one  was  crowded  with 
the  servants  and  villagers,  and  only  the  upper  doorway 
was  left  free.  Bob  Cass  was  figuring  in  a  hornpipe,  and 
his  father,  very  proud  of  this  lithe  son,  whom  he  repeat- 
edly declared  to  be  just  like  himself  in  his  young  days  in 
a  tone  that  implied  this  to  be  the  very  highest  stamp  of 
juvenile  merit,  was  the  centre  of  a  group  who  had  placed 
themselves  opposite  the  performer,  not  far  from  the  upper 
door.  Godfrey  was  standing  a  little  way  off,  not  to  admire 


144  SILAS  MARNER 

his  brother's  dancing,  but  to  keep  sight  of  Nancy,  who  waa 
seated  in  the  group,  near  her  father.  He  stood  aloof,  be- 
cause he  wished  to  avoid  suggesting  himself  as  a  subject 
for  the  Squire's  fatherly  jokes  in  connection  with  matri- 
mony and  Miss  Nancy  Lammeter's  beauty,  which  were 
likely  to  become  more  and  more  explicit.  But  he  had  the 
prospect  of  dancing  with  her  again  when  the  hornpipe 
was  concluded,  and  in  the  meanwhile  it  was  very  pleasant 
to  get  long  glances  at  her  quite  unobserved. 

But  when  Godfrey  was  lifting  his  eyes  from  one  of  those 
long  glances,  they  encountered  an  object  as  startling  to 
him  at  that  moment  as  if  it  had  been  an  apparition  from 
the  dead.  It  was  an  apparition  from  that  hidden  life 
which  lies,  like  a  dark  by-street,  behind  the  goodly  orna- 
mented fa9ade  that  meets  the  sunlight  and  the  gaze  of  re- 
spectable admirers.  It  was  his  own  child  carried  in  Silas 
Marner's  arms.  That  was  his  instantaneous  impression, 
unaccompanied  by  doubt,  though  he  had  not  seen  the  child 
for  months  past ;  and  when  the  hope  was  rising  that  he 
might  possibly  be  mistaken,  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Mr. 
Lammeter  had  already  advanced  to  Silas,  in  astonishment 
at  this  strange  advent.  Godfrey  joined  them  immediately, 
unable  to  rest  without  hearing  every  word — trying  to  con- 
trol himself,  but  conscious  that  if  any  one  noticed  him, 
they  must  see  that  he  was  white-lipped  and  trembling. 

But  now  all  eyes  at  that  end  of  the  room  were  bent 
on  Silas  Marner  ;  the  Squire  himself  had  risen,  and  asked 
angrily,  ' '  How's  this  ? — what's  this  ? — what  do  you  do 
coming  in  here  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  I'm  come  for  the  doctor — I  want  the  doctor,"  Silas 
had  said,  in  the  first  moment,  to  Mr.  Crackenthorp. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Marner  ?  "  said  the  rector. 
"  The  doctor's  here ;  but  say  quietly  what  you  want  him  for." 

"  It's  a  woman,"  said  Silas,  speaking  low,  and  half- 
breathlessly,  just  as  Godfrey  came  up.  "  She's  dead,  I 
think — dead  in  the  snow  at  the  Stone-pits — not  far  from 
my  door." 


SILAS  MARNER  145 

Godfrey  felt  a  great  throb  :  there  was  one  terror  in  his 
mind  at  that  moment  :  it  was,  that  the  woman  might  not 
be  dead.  That  was  an  evil  terror — an  ugly  inmate  to  have 
found  a  nestling-place  in  Godfrey's  kindly  disposition ; 
but  no  disposition  is  a  security  from  evil  wishes  to  a  man 
whose  happiness  hangs  on  duplicity. 

"Hush,  hush  I"  said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  "  Go  out  into 
the  hall  there.  I'll  fetch  the  doctor  to  you.  Found  a 
woman  in  the  snow — and  think  she's  dead,"  he  added, 
speaking  low,  to  the  Squire.  "  Better  say  as  little  about 
it  as  possible :  it  will  shock  the  ladies.  Just  tell  them  a 
poor  woman  is  ill  from  cold  and  hunger.  I'll  go  and  fetch 
Kimble." 

By  this  time,  however,  the  ladies  had  pressed  forward, 
curious  to  know  what  could  have  brought  the  solitary 
linen-weaver  there  under  such  strange  circumstances,  and 
interested  in  the  pretty  child,  who,  half  alarmed  and  half 
attracted  by  the  brightness  and  the  numerous  company, 
now  frowned  and  hid  her  face,  now  lifted  up  her  head 
again  and  looked  round  placably,  until  a  touch  or  a  coax- 
ing word  brought  back  the  frown,  and  made  her  bury  her 
face  with  new  determination. 

"  What  child  is  it  ?  "  said  several  ladies  at  once,  and, 
among  the  rest,  Nancy  Lammeter,  addressing  Godfrey. 

"  I  don't  know — some  poor  woman's  who  has  been  found 
in  the  snow,  I  believe,"  was  the  answer  Godfrey  wrung 
from  himself  with  a  terrible  effort.  ("After  all,  am  I 
certain  ?  "  he  hastened  to  add,  in  anticipation  of  his  own 
conscience.) 

"  Why,  you'd  better  leave  the  child  here,  then,  Master 
Marner,"  said  good-natured  Mrs.  Kimble,  hesitating,  how- 
ever, to  take  those  dingy  clothes  into  contact  with  her  own 
ornamented  satin  boddice.  "  I'll  tell  one  o'  the  girls  to 
fetch  it." 

"  No — no — I  can't  part  with  it,  I  can't  let  it  go,"  said 
Silas,  abruptly.  "  It's  come  to  me — I've  a  right  to  keep  it." 

The  proposition  to  take  the  child  from  him  had  come  to 
10 


146  SILAS  MARNER 

Silas  quite  unexpectedly,  and  his  speech,  uttered  under  a 
strong  sudden  impulse,  was  almost  like  a  revelation  to 
himself  :  a  minute  before,  he  had  no  distinct  intention 
about  the  child. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ?"said  Mrs.  Kimble,  in 
mild  surprise,  to  her  neighbour. 

"  Now,  ladies,  I  must  trouble  you  to  stand  aside,"  said 
Mr.  Kimble,  coming  from  the  card-room,  in  some  bitter- 
ness at  the  interruption,  but  drilled  by  the  long  habit  of 
his  profession  into  obedience  to  unpleasant  calls,  even  when 
he  was  hardly  sober. 

"It's  a  nasty  business  turning  out  now,  eh,  Kimble  ?" 
said  the  Squire.  "  He  might  ha'  gone  for  your  young 
fellow — the  'prentice,  there — what's  his  name  ?  " 

"  Might  ?  ay — what's  the  use  of  talking  about  might  ?" 
growled  uncle  Kimble,  hastening  out  with  Marner,  and 
followed  by  Mr.  Crackenthorp  and  Godfrey.  "  Get  me  a 
pair  of  thick  boots,  Godfrey,  will  you  ?  And  stay,  let 
somebody  run  to  Winthrop's  and  fetch  Dolly — she's  the 
best  woman  to  get.  Ben  was  here  himself  before  supper  ; 
is  he  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  met  him,"  said  Marner  ;  "  but  I  couldn't 
stop  to  tell  him  anything,  only  I  said  I  was  going  for  tire 
doctor,  and  he  said  the  doctor  was  at  the  Squire's.  And  I 
made  haste  and  ran,  and  there  was  nobody  to  be  seen  at 
the  back  o'  the  house,  and  so  I  went  in  to  where  the  com- 
pany was." 

The  child,  no  longer  distracted  by  the  bright  light  and 
the  smiling  women's  faces,  began  to  cry  and  call  for 
"  mammy,"  though  always  clinging  to  Marner,  who  had 
apparently  won  her  thorough  confidence.  Godfrey  had 
come  back  with  the  boots,  and  felt  the  cry  as  if  some  fibre 
were  drawn  tight  within  him. 

' '  I'll  go,"  he  said,  hastily,  eager  for  some  movement ; 
"  I'll  go  and  fetch  the  woman — Mrs.  Winthrop." 

"  0,  pooh — send  somebody  else,"  said  uncle  Kimble, 
hurrying  away  with  Marner. 


SILAS  MARNER  147 

"  You'll  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  Kimble," 
said  Mr.  Crackenthorp.  But  the  doctor  was  out  of  hear- 
ing. 

Godfrey,  too,  had  disappeared  :  he  was  gone  to  snatch 
his  hat  and  coat,  having  just  reflection  enough  to  remem- 
ber that  he  must  not  look  like  a  madman  ;  but  he  rushed 
out  of  the  house  into  the  snow  without  heeding  his  thin 
shoes. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  on  his  rapid  way  to  the  Stone- 
pits  by  the  side  of  Dolly,  who,  though  feeling  that  she  was 
entirely  in  her  place  in  encountering  cold  and  snow  on  an 
errand  of  mercy,  was  much  concerned  at  a  young  gentle- 
man's getting  his  feet  wet  under  a  like  impulse. 

"  You'd  a  deal  better  go  back,  sir,"  said  Dolly,  with  re- 
spectful compassion.  "  You've  no  call  to  catch  cold  ;  and 
I'd  ask  you  if  you'd  be  so  good  as  tell  my  husband  to  come, 
on  your  way  back — he's  at  the  Rainbow,  I  doubt — if  you 
found  him  anyway  sober  enough  to  be  o'  use.  Or  else, 
there's  Mrs.  Snell  'ud  happen  send  the  boy  up  to  fetch 
and  carry,  for  there  may  be  things  wanted  from  the  doc- 
tor's." 

"  No,  I'll  stay,  now  I'm  once  out — I'll  stay  outside 
here,"  said  Godfrey,  when  they  came  opposite  Marner's 
cottage.  "  You  can  come  and  tell  me  if  I  can  do  any- 
thing." 

"Well,  sir,  you're  very  good:  you've  a  tender  heart," 
said  Dolly,  going  to  the  door. 

Godfrey  was  too  painfully  preoccupied  to  feel  a  twinge 
of  self-reproach  at  this  undeserved  praise.  He  walked  up 
and  down,  unconscious  that  he  was  plunging  ankle-deep  in 
snow,  unconscious  of  everything  but  trembling  suspense 
about  what  was  going  on  in  the  cottage,  and  the  effect  of 
each  alternative  on  his  future  lot.  No,  not  quite  uncon- 
scious of  everything  else.  Deeper  down,  and  half-smoth- 
ered by  passionate  desire  and  dread,  there  was  the  sense 
that  he  ought  not  to  be  waiting  on  these  alternatives  ;  that 
he  ought  to  accept  the  consequences  of  his  deeds,  own  the 


148  SILAS  MAItNER 

miserable  wife,  and  fulfil  the  claims  of  the  helpless  child. 
But  he  had  not  moral  courage  enough  to  contemplate  that 
active  renunciation  of  Nancy  as  possible  for  him  :  he  had 
only  conscience  and  heart  enough  to  make  him  for  ever  un- 
easy under  the  weakness  that  forbade  the  renunciation. 
And  at  this  moment  his  mind  leaped  away  from  all  restraint 
toward  the  sudden  prospect  of  deliverance  from  his  long 
bondage. 

"Is  she  dead  ?"  said  the  voice  that  predominated  over 
every  other  within  him.  "  If  she  is,  I  may  marry  Nancy  ; 
and  then  I  shall  be  a  good  fellow  in  future,  and  have  no 
secrets,  and  the  child — shall  be  taken  care  of  somehow." 
But  across  that  vision  came  the  other  possibility — "  She 
may  live,  and  then  it's  all  up  with  me/' 

Godfrey  never  knew  how  long  it  was  before  the  door  of 
the  cottage  opened  and  Mr.  Kimble  came  out.  He  went 
forward  to  meet  his  uncle,  prepared  to  suppress  the  agita- 
tion he  must  feel,  whatever  news  he  was  to  hear. 

' '  I  waited  for  you,  as  I'd  come  so  far,"  he  said,  speaking 
first. 

"Pooh,  it  was  nonsense  for  you  to  come  out  :  why  didn't 
you  send  one  of  the  men  ?  There's  nothing  to  be  done. 
She's  dead — has  been  dead  for  hours,  I  should  say." 

"What  sort  of  woman  is  she  ?"  said  Godfrey,  feeling 
the  blood  rush  to  his  face. 

"A  young  woman,  but  emaciated,  with  long  black  hair. 
Some  vagrant — quite  in  rags.  She's  got  a  wedding-ring 
on,  however.  They  must  fetch  her  away  to  the  workhouse 
to-morrow.  Come,  come  along." 

"  I  want  to  look  at  her,"  said  Godfrey.  "  I  think  I  saw 
such  a  woman  yesterday.  I'll  overtake  you  in  a  minute  or 
two." 

Mr.  Kimble  went  on,  and  Godfrey  turned  back  to  the 
cottage.  He  cast  only  one  glance  at  the  dead  face  on  the 
pillow,  which  Dolly  had  smoothed  with  decent  care  ;  but 
he  remembered  that  last  look  at  his  unhappy  hated  wife  so 
well,  that  at  the  end  of  sixteen  years  every  line  in  the  worn 


SILAS  MARNER  149 

face  was  present  to  him  when  he  told  the  full  story  of  this 
night. 

He  turned  immediately  towards  the  hearth,  where  Silas 
Marner  sat  lulling  the  child.  She  was  perfectly  quiet  now, 
but  not  asleep — only  soothed  by  sweet  porridge  and  warmth 
into  that  wide-gazing  calm  which  makes  us  older  human 
beings,  with  our  inward  turmoil,  feel  a  certain  awe  in  the 
presence  of  a  little  child,  such  as  we  feel  before  some  quiet 
majesty  or  beauty  in  the  earth  or  sky — before  a  steady 
glowing  planet,  or  a  full-flowered  eglantine,  or  the  bending 
trees  over  a  silent  pathway.  The  wide-open  blue  eyes 
looked  up  at  Godfrey's  without  any  uneasiness  or  sign  of 
recognition  :  the  child  could  make  no  visible  audible  claim 
on  its  father ;  and  the  father  felt  a  strange  mixture  of 
feelings,  a  conflict  of  regret  and  joy,  that  the  pulse  of  that 
little  heart  had  no  response  for  the  half-jealous  yearning  in 
his  own,  when  the  blue  eyes  turned  away  from  him  slowly, 
and  fixed  themselves  on  the  weaver's  queer  face,  which  was 
bent  low  down  to  look  at  them,  while  the  small  hand  began 
to  pull  Marner's  withered  cheek  with  loving  disfiguration. 

"You'll  take  the  child  to  the  parish  to- morrow  ?" 
asked  Godfrey,  speaking  as  indifferently  as  he  could. 

"AVho  says  so?"  said  Marner,  sharply.  "Will  they 
make  me  take  her  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  wouldn't  like  to  keep  her,  should  you — an 
old  bachelor  like  you  ?  " 

"Till  anybody  shows  they've  a  right  to  take  her  away 
from  me,"  said  Marner.  "  The  mother's  dead,  and  I 
reckon  it's  got  no  father  :  it's  a  lone  thing — and  I'm  alone 
thing.  My  money's  gone,  I  don't  know  where — and  this 
is  come  from  I  don't  know  where.  I  know  nothing — I'm 
partly  mazed." 

"Poor  little  thing!"  said  Godfrey.  "Let  me  give 
something  towards  finding  it  clothes." 

He  had  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  found  half-a- 
guinea,  and,  thrusting  it  into  Silas's  hand,  he  hurried  out 
of  the  cottage  to  overtake  Mr.  Kimble. 


150  SILAS  MARNER 

"  Ah,  I  see  it's  not  the  same  woman  I  saw/'  he  said,  ag 
he  came  up.  "  It's  a  pretty  little  child  :  the  old  fellow 
seems  to  want  to  keep  it ;  that's  strange  for  a  miser  like 
him.  But  I  gave  him  a  trifle  to  help  him  out  :  the  parish 
isn't  likely  to  quarrel  with  him  for  the  right  to  keep  the 
child." 

"  No  ;  but  I've  seen  the  time  when  I  might  have  quar- 
relled with  him  for  it  myself.  It's  too  late  now,  though. 
If  the  child  ran  into  the  fire,  your  aunt's  too  fat  to  over- 
take it  :  she  could  only  sit  and  grunt  like  an  alarmed  sow. 
But  what  a  fool  you  are,  Godfrey,  to  come  out  in  your 
dancing  shoes  and  stockings  in  this  way — and  you  one  of 
the  beaux  of  the  evening,  and  at  your  own  house  !  AVhat 
do  you  mean  by  such  freaks,  young  fellow  ?  Has  Miss 
Nancy  been  cruel,  and  do  you  want  to  spite  her  by  spoiling 
your  pumps  ?  " 

"0,  everything  has  been  disagreeable  to-night.  I  was 
tired  to  death  of  jigging  and  gallanting,1  and  that  bother 
about  the  hornpipes.  And  I'd  got  to  dance  with  the  other 
Miss  Gunn,"  said  Godfrey,  glad  of  the  subterfuge  his  uncle 
had  suggested  to  him. 

The  prevarication  and  white  lies  which  a  mind  that 
keeps  itself  ambitiously  pure  is  as  uneasy  under  as  a  great 
artist  under  the  false  touches  that  no  eye  detects  but  his 
own,  are  worn  as  lightly  as  mere  trimmings  when  once  the 
actions  have  become  a  lie.2 

Godfrey  reappeared  in  the  White  Parlour  with  dry  feet, 
and,  since  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  a  sense  of  relief  and 
gladness  that  was  too  strong  for  painful  thoughts  to  strug- 
gle with.  For  could  he  not  venture  now,  whenever  op- 
portunity offered,  to  say  the  tenderest  things  to  Nancy 
Lammeter — to  promise  her  and  himself  that  he  would  al- 
ways be  just  what  she  would  desire  to  see  him  ?  There 
was  no  danger  that  his  dead  wife  would  be  recognised  : 
those  were  not  days  of  active  inquiry  and  wide  report ; 

1  "Jigging  and  gallanting,"  i.e.,  dancing  and  playing  the  gallant. 
3  A  bit  of  direct  moralizing  that  interrupts  the  story. 


SILAS  MARNER  151 

and  as  for  the  registry  of  their  marriage,  that  was  a  long 
way  off,  buried  in  unturned  pages,  away  from  every  one's 
interest  but  his  own.  Dunsey  might  betray  him  if  he 
came  back  ;  but  Dunsey  might  be  won  to  silence. 

And  when  events  turn  out  so  much  better  for  a  man 
than  he  has  had  reason  to  dread,  is  it  not  a  proof  that  his 
conduct  has  been  less  foolish  and  blameworthy  than  it 
might  otherwise  have  appeared  ?  When  we  are  treated 
well,  we  naturally  begin  to  think  that  we  are  not  altogether 
unmeritorious,  and  that  it  is  only  just  we  should  treat 
ourselves  well,  and  not  mar  our  own  good  fortune.  Where, 
after  all,  would  be  the  use  of  his  confessing  the  past  to 
Nancy  Lammeter,  and  throwing  away  his  happiness  ?  — 
nay,  hers  ?  for  he  felt  some  confidence  that  she  loved  him. 
As  for  the  child,  he  would  see  that  it  was  cared  for  :  he 
would  never  forsake  it ;  he  would  do  everything  but  own 
it.  Perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  happy  in  life  without  be- 
ing owned  by  its  father,  seeing  that  nobody  could  tell  how 
things  would  turn  out,  and  that — is  there  any  other  reason 
wanted  ? — well,  then,  that  the  father  would  be  much 
happier  without  owning  the  child. 

Separate  the  narrative,  the  analytic,  and  the  didactic  methods  used 
in  this  chapter.  Would  it  be  possible  for  the  novelist  to  present  com- 
pletely Godfrey  Cass's  character  at  this  crisis  without  discussing  his 
weakness  ? 

Could  the  events  of  the  preceding  chapter  have  been  placed  earlier 
in  the  story  ?  What  is  gained  by  the  lapse  in  time  between  the  loss  of 
Marner's  money  and  the  discovery  of  the  child  ?  What  element  of 
symbolism  enters  into  Marner's  discovery  ?  How  does  the  novelist 
prepare  us  for  the  interest  which  Marner  is  to  take  in  the  child  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THERE  was  a  pauper's  burial  that  week  in  Raveloe,  and  up 
Kench  Yard  at  Batherley  it  was  known  that  the  dark- 
haired  woman  with  the  fair  child,  who  had  lately  come  to 
lodge  there,  was  gone  away  again.  That  was  all  the  ex- 
press note  taken  that  Molly  had  disappeared  from  the  eyes 
of  men.  But  the  unwept  death  which,  to  the  general  lot, 
seemed  as  trivial  as  the  summer-shed  leaf,  was  charged 
with  the  force  of  destiny  to  certain  human  lives  that  we 
know  of,  shaping  their  joys  and  sorrows  even  to  the  end. 

Silas  Marner's  determination  to  keep  the  "  tramp's  child  " 
was  matter  of  hardly  less  surprise  and  iterated  talk  in  the 
village  than  the  robbery  of  his  money.  That  softening  of 
feeling  towards  him  which  dated  from  his  misfortune,  that 
merging  of  suspicion  and  dislike  in  a  rather  contemptuous 
pity  for  him  as  lone  and  crazy,  was  now  accompanied  with 
a  more  active  sympathy,  especially  amongst  the  women. 
Notable  mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  keep  children 
"  whole  and  sweet ;"  lazy  mothers,  who  knew  what  it  was 
to  be  interrupted  in  folding  their  arms  and  scratching  their 
elbows  by  the  mischievous  propensities  of  children  just 
firm  on  their  legs,  were  equally  interested  in  conjecturing 
how  a  lone  man  would  manage  with  a  two-year-old  child 
on  his  hands,  and  were  equally  ready  with  their  sugges- 
tions :  the  notable  chiefly  telling  him  what  he  had  better 
do,  and  the  lazy  ones  being  emphatic  in  telling  him  what 
he  would  never  be  able  to  do. 

Among  the  notable  mothers,  Dolly  Winthrop  was  the 
one  whose  neighbourly  offices  were  the  most  acceptable  to 
Marner,  for  they  were  rendered  without  any  show  of  bus- 


SILAS  MARNER  153 

tling  instruction.  Silas  had  shown  her  the  half -guinea 
given  to  him  by  Godfrey,  and  had  asked  her  what  he 
should  do  about  getting  some  clothes  for  the  child. 

"  Eh,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  "  there's  no  call  to 
buy,  no  more  nor  a  pair  o'  shoes ;  for  I've  got  the  little 
petticoats  as  Aaron  wore  five  years  ago,  and  it's  ill  spend- 
ing the  money  on  them  baby-clothes,  for  the  child  'ull 
grow  like  grass  i'  May,  bless  it — that  it  will." 

And  the  same  day  Dolly  brought  her  bundle,  and  dis- 
played to  Marner,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  garments  in  their 
due  order  of  succession,  most  of  them  patched  and  darned, 
but  clean  and  neat  as  fresh-sprung  herbs.  This  was  the 
introduction  to  a  great  ceremony  with  soap  and  water, 
from  which  baby  came  out  in  new  beauty,  and  sat  on  Dol- 
ly's knee,  handling  her  toes  and  chuckling  and  patting  her 
palms  together  with  an  air  of  having  made  several  discov- 
eries about  herself,  which  she  communicated  by  alternate 
sounds  of  " gug-gug-gug,"  and  "mammy."  The  "mam- 
my "  was  not  a  cry  of  need  or  uneasiness  :  Baby  had  been 
used  to  utter  it  without  expecting  either  tender  sound  or 
touch  to  follow. 

"  Anybody  'ud  think  the  angils  in  heaven  couldn't  be 
prettier,"  said  Dolly,  rubbing  the  golden  curls  and  kissing 
them.  "  And  to  think  of  its  being  covered  wi'  them  dirty 
rags — and  the  poor  mother — froze  to  death  ;  but  there's 
Them  as  took  care  of  it,  and  brought  it  to  your  door,  Mas- 
ter Marner.  The  door  was  open,  and  it  walked  in  over 
the  snow,  like  as  if  it  had  been  a  little  starved  robin. 
Didn't  you  say  the  door  was  open  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  meditatively.  "  Yes — the  door  was 
open.  The  money's  gone  I  don't  know  where,  and  this  is 
come  from  I  don't  know  where." 

He  had  not  mentioned  to  any  one  his  unconsciousness  of 
the  child's  entrance,  shrinking  from  questions  which  might 
lead  to  the  fact  he  himself  suspected — namely,  that  he  had 
been  in  one  of  his  trances. 

"  Ah,"  said  Dolly,  with  soothing  gravity,  "  it's  like  the 


154  SILAS  MARNER 

night  and  the  morning,  and  the  sleeping  and  the  waking, 
and  the  rain  and  the  harvest — one  goes  and  the  other 
comes,  and  we  know  nothing  how  nor  where.  We  may 
strive  and  scrat 1  and  fend,  but  it's  little  we  can  do  arter 
all — the  big  things  come  and  go  wi'  no  striving  o'  our'n — 
they  do,  that  they  do  ;  and  I  think  you're  in  the  right  on 
it  to  keep  the  little  un,  Master  Marner,  seeing  as  it's  been 
sent  to  you,  though  there's  folks  as  thinks  different. 
You'll  happen  be  a  bit  moithered 2  with  it  while  it's  so  lit- 
tle ;  but  I'll  come,  and  welcome,  and  see  to  it  for  you  :  I've 
-a  bit  o'  time  to  spare  most  days,  for  when  one  gets  up  be- 
times i'  the  morning,  the  clock  seems  to  stan'  still  tow'rt 
ten,  afore  it's  time  to  go  about  the  victual.  So,  as  I  say, 
I'll  come  and  see  to  the  child  for  you,  and  welcome." 

"Thank  you  .  .  .  kindly,"  said  Silas,  hesitating  a 
little.  "I'll  be  glad  if  you'll  tell  me  things.  But,"  he 
added,  uneasily,  leaning  forward  to  look  at  Baby  with 
some  jealousy,  as  she  was  resting  her  head  backward 
against  Dolly's  arm,  and  eyeing  him  contentedly  from  a 
distance — "  But  I  want  to  do  things  for  it  myself,  else  it 
may  get  fond  o'  somebody  else,  and  not  fond  o'  me.  I've 
been  used  to  fending  for  myself  in  the  house — I  can  learn, 
I  can  learn." 

"Eh,  to  be  sure,"  said  Dolly,  gently.  "I've  seen  men 
as  are  wonderful  handy  wi'  children.  The  men  are  awk- 
'ard  and  contrairy  mostly,  God  help  'em — but  when  the 
drink's  out  of  'em,  they  aren't  unsensible,  though  they're 
bad  for  leeching  and  bandaging — so  fiery  and  impatient. 
You  see  this  goes  first,  next  the  skin,"  proceeded  Dolly, 
taking  up  the  little  shirt,  and  putting  it  on. 

"Yes,"  said  Marner,  docilely,  bringing  his  eyes  very 
close,  that  they  might  be  initiated  in  the  mysteries ; 
whereupon  Baby  seized  his  head  with  both  her  small  arms, 
and  put  her  lips  against  his  face  with  purring  noises. 

"  See  there,"  said  Dolly,  with  a  woman's  tender  tact, 

1  Obsolete  or  provincial ;  compare  scratc7i. 

8  Obsolete,  except  in  provincial  use  ;  bothered. 


SILAS  MARNER  155 

"  she's  fondest  o'  you.  She  wants  to  go  o'  your  lap,  I'll 
be  bound.  Go,  then  :  take  her,  Master  Marner  ;  you  can 
put  the  things  on,  and  then  you  can  say  as  you've  done  for 
her  from  the  first  of  her  coining  to  you." 

Marner  took  her  on  his  lap,  trembling  Avith  an  emo- 
tion mysterious  to  himself,  at  something  unknown  dawn- 
ing on  his  life.  Thought  and  feeling  were  so  confused 
within  him,  that  if  he  had  tried  to  give  them  utterance, 
he  could  only  have  said  that  the  child  was  come  instead  of 
the  gold — that  the  gold  had  turned  into  the  child.  He 
took  the  garments  from  Dolly,  and  put  them  on  under  her 
teaching ;  interrupted,  of  course,  by  Baby's  gymnastics. 

"  There,  then  !  why,  you  take  to  it  quite  easy,  Master 
Marner,"  said  Dolly  ;  "  but  what  shall  you  do  when  you're 
forced  to  sit  in  your  loom  ?  For  she'll  get  busier  and  inis- 
chievouser  every  day — she  will,  bless  her.  It's  lucky  as 
you've  got  that  high  hearth  i'stead  of  a  grate,  for  that 
keeps  the  fire  more  out  of  her  reach  :  but  if  you've  got  any- 
thing as  can  be  spilt  or  broke,  or  as  is  fit  to  cut  her  fingers 
off,  she'll  be  at  it — and  it  is  but  right  you  should  know." 

Silas  meditated  a  little  while  in  some  perplexity. 
"  I'll  tie  her  to  the  leg  o'  the  loom,"  he  said  at  last — "  tie 
her  with  a  good  long  strip  o'  something." 

"  Well,  mayhap  that'll  do,  as  it's  a  little  gell,  for  they're 
easier  persuaded  to  sit  i'  one  place  nor  the  lads.  I  know 
what  the  lads  are ;  for  I've  had  four — four  I've  had,  God 
knows — and  if  you  was  to  take  and  tie  'em  up,  they'd 
make  a  fighting  and  a  crying  as  if  you  was  ringing  the 
pigs.1  But  I'll  bring  you  my  little  chair,  and  some  bits  o' 
red  rag  and  things  for  her  to  play  wi' ;  an*  she'll  sit  and 
chatter  to  'em  as  if  they  was  alive.  Eh,  if  it  wasn't  a  sin 
to  the  lads  to  wish  'em  made  different,  bless  'em,  I  should 
ha'  been  glad  for  one  of  'em  to  be  a  little  gell ;  and  to 
think  as  I  could  ha'  taught  her  to  scour,  and  mend,  and 
the  knitting,  and  everything.  But  I  can  teach  'em  this 
little  un,  Master  Marner,  when  she  gets  old  enough." 
1  "  Ringing  the  pigs,"  i.e.,  piercing  the  pigs'  noses  with  rings. 


156  SILAS  MARNER 

"  But  she'll  be  my  little  un,"  said  Marner,  rather  has- 
tily. "  She'll  be  nobody  else's." 

"  No,  to  be  sure  ;  you'll  have  a  right  to  her,  if  you're  a 
father  to  her,  and  bring  her  up  according.  But,"  added 
Dolly,  coming  to  a  point  which  she  had  determined  be- 
forehand to  touch  upon,  "you  must  bring  her  up  like 
christened  folks's  children,  and  take  her  to  church,  and  let 
her  learn  her  catechise,  as  my  little  Aaron  can  say  off — • 
the  '  I  believe/  and  everything,  and  'hurt  nobody  by  word 
or  deed,' — as  well  as  if  he  was  the  clerk.  That's  what  you 
must  do,  Master  Marner,  if  you'd  do  the  right  thing  by 
the  orphin  child." 

Marner's  pale  face  flushed  suddenly  under  a  new  anxiety. 
His  mind  was  too  busy  trying  to  give  some  definite  bearing 
to  Dolly's  words  for  him  to  think  of  answering  her. 

"And  it's  my  belief,"  she  went  on,  "as  the  poor  little 
creature  has  never  been  christened,  and  it's  nothing  but 
right  as  the  parson  should  be  spoke  to ;  and  if  you  was 
noways  unwilling,  I'd  talk  to  Mr.  Macey  about  it  this  very 
day.  For  if  the  child  ever  went  anyways  wrong,  and  you 
hadn't  done  your  part  by  it,  Master  Marner — 'noculation,1 
and  everything  to  save  it  from  harm — it  'ud  be  a  thorn  i' 
your  bed  for  ever  o'  this  side  the  grave  ;  and  I  can't  think 
as  it  'ud  be  easy  lying  down  for  anybody  when  they'd  got 
to  another  world,  if  they  hadn't  done  their  part  by  the 
helpless  children  as  come  wi'out  their  own  asking." 

Dolly  herself  was  disposed  to  be  silent  for  some  time  now, 
for  she  had  spoken  from  the  depths  of  her  own  simple  be- 
lief, and  was  much  concerned  to  know  whether  her  words 
would  produce  the  desired  effect  on  Silas.  He  was  puzzled 
and  anxious,  for  Dolly's  word  "  christened  "  conveyed  no 
distinct  meaning  to  him.  He  had  only  heard  of  baptism, 
and  had  only  seen  the  baptism  of  groAvn-up  men  and 
women. 

"  What  is  it  as  you  mean  by  '  christened '  ?  "  he  said  at 
last,  timidly.     "  Won't  folks  be  good  to  her  without  it  ?  " 
1  Vaccination  (introduced  into  England  about  1787). 


SILAS  MARNER  157 

"  Dear,  clear  !  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  with  gentle 
distress  and  compassion.  "  Had  you  never  no  father  nor 
mother  as  taught  you  to  say  your  prayers,  and  as  there's 
good  words  and  good  things  to  keep  us  from  harm  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice  ;  "I  know  a  deal  about 
that — used  to,  used  to.  But  your  ways  are  different  :  my 
country  was  a  good  way  off."  He  paused  a  few  moments, 
and  then  added,  more  decidedly,  "  But  I  want  to  do  every- 
thing as  can  be  done  for  the  child.  And  whatever's  right 
for  it  i'  this  country,  and  you  think  'ull  do  it  good,  I'll  act 
according,  if  you'll  tell  me." 

"  Well,  then,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  inwardly  re- 
joiced, "  I'll  ask  Mr.  Macey  to  speak  to  the  parson  about 
it ;  and  you  must  fix  on  a  name  for  it,  because  it  must  have 
a  name  giv'  it  when  it's  christened." 

"  My  mother's  name  was  Hephzibah,"  said  Silas,  ' '  and 
my  little  sister  was  named  after  her." 

"  Eh,  that's  a  hard  name,"  said  Dolly.  "  I  partly  think 
it  isn't  a  christened  name." 

"  It's  a  Bible  name,"  said  Silas,  old  ideas  recurring. 

"  Then  I've  no  call  to  speak  again'  it,"  said  Dolly, 
rather  startled  by  Silas's  knowledge  on  this  head  ;  "  but 
you  see  I'm  no  scholard,  and  I'm  slow  at  catching  the 
words.  My  husband  says  I'm  allays  like  as  if  I  was  put- 
ting the  haft  for  the  handle — that's  what  he  says — for  he's 
very  sharp,  God  help  him.  But  it  was  awk'ard  calling 
your  little  sister  by  such  a  hard  name,  when  you'd  got 
nothing  big  to  say,  like — wasn't  it,  Master  Marner  ?  " 

"  We  called  her  Eppie,"  said  Silas. 

"  Well,  if  it  was  noways  wrong  to  shorten  the  name,  it 
?ud  be  a  deal  handier.  And  so  I'll  go  now,  Master  Mar- 
ner, and  I'll  speak  about  the  christening  afore  dark  ;  and 
I  wish  you  the  best  o'  luck,  and  it's  my  belief  as  it'll  come 
to  you,  if  you  do  what's  right  by  the  orphin  child  ; — and 
there's  the  'noculation  to  be  seen  to  ;  and  as  to  washing  its 
bits  o'  things,  you  need  look  to  nobody  but  me,  for  I  can 
do  'em  wi'  one  hand  when  I've  got  my  suds  about.  Eh, 


158  SILAS  MARNER 

the  blessed  angil  !  You'll  let  me  bring  my  Aaron  one  o' 
these  days,  and  he'll  show  her  his  little  cart  as  his  father's 
made  for  him,  and  the  black-and-white  pup  as  he's  got  a- 
rearing." 

Baby  was  christened,  the  rector  deciding  that  a  double 
baptism  was  the  lesser  risk  to  incur  ;  and  on  this  occasion 
Silas,  making  himself  as  clean  and  tidy  as  he  could,  ap- 
peared for  the  first  time  within  the  church,  and  shared  in 
the  observances  held  sacred  by  his  neighbours.  He  was 
quite  unable,  by  means  of  anything  he  heard  or  saw,  to 
identify  the  Kaveloe  religion  with  his  old  faith  ;  if  he 
could  at  any  time  in  his  previous  life  have  done  so,  it  must 
have  been  by  the  aid  of  a  strong  feeling  ready  to  vibrate 
with  sympathy,  rather  than  by  a  comparison  of  phrases 
and  ideas  :  and  now  for  long  years  that  feeling  had  been 
dormant.  He  had  no  distinct  idea  about  the  baptism  and 
the  church-going,  except  that  Dolly  had  said  it  was  for 
the  good  of  the  child  ;  and  in  this  way,  as  the  weeks  grew 
to  months,  the  child  created  fresh  and  fresh  links  between 
his  life  and  the  lives  from  which  he  had  hitherto  shrunk 
continually  into  narrower  isolation.  Unlike  the  gold 
which  needed  nothing,  and  must  be  worshipped  in  close- 
locked  solitude — which  was  hidden  away  from  the  day- 
light, was  deaf  to  the  song  of  birds,  and  started  to  no 
human  tones — Eppie  was  a  creature  of  endless  claims  and 
ever-growing  desires,  seeking  and  loving  sunshine,  and 
living  sounds,  and  living  movements  ;  making  trial  of 
everything,  with  trust  in  new  joy,  and  stirring  the  human 
kindness  in  all  eyes  that  looked  on  her.  The  gold  had 
kept  his  thoughts  in  an  ever-repeated  circle,  leading  to 
nothing  beyond  itself  ;  but  Eppie  was  an  object  compacted 
of  changes  and  hopes  that  forced  his  thoughts  onward,  and 
carried  them  far  away  from  their  old  eager  pacing  towards 
the  same  blank  limit  —  carried  them  away  to  the  new 
things  that  would  come  with  the  coming  years,  when  Ep- 
pie would  have  learned  to  understand  how  her  father  Silas 
cared  for  her  ;  and  made  him  look  for  images  of  that  time 


SILAS  MARNER  159 

in  the  ties  and  charities  that  bound  together  the  families 
of  his  neighbours.  The  gold  had  asked  that  he  should  sit 
weaving  longer  and  longer,  deafened  and  blinded  more  and 
more  to  all  things  except  the  monotony  of  his  loom  and 
the  repetition  of  his  web  ;  but  Eppie  called  him  away  from 
his  weaving,  and  made  him  think  all  its  pauses  a  holiday, 
reawakening  his  senses  with  her  fresh  life,  even  to  the  old 
winter-flies  that  came  crawling  forth  in  the  early  spring 
sunshine,  and  warming  him  into  joy  because  she  had  joy. 

And  when  the  sunshine  grew  strong  and  lasting,  so  that 
the  buttercups  were  thick  in  the  meadows,  Silas  might  be 
seen  in  the  sunny  mid-day,  or  in  the  late  afternoon  when 
the  shadows  were  lengthening  under  the  hedgerows,  stroll- 
ing out  with  uncovered  head  to  carry  Eppie  beyond  the 
Stone-pits  to  where  the  flowers  grew,  till  they  reached 
some  favourite  bank  where  he  could  sit  down,  while  Eppie 
toddled  to  pluck  the  flowers,  and  make  remarks  to  the 
winged  things  that  murmured  happily  above  the  bright 
petals,  calling  "  Dad-dad's "  attention  continually  by 
bringing  him  the  flowers.  Then  she  would  turn  her  ear  to 
some  sudden  bird-note,  and  Silas  learned  to  please  her  by 
making  signs  of  hushed  stillness,  that  they  might  listen 
for  the  note  to  come  again  :  so  that  when  it  came,  she  set 
up  her  small  back  and  laughed  with  gurgling  triumph. 
Sitting  on  the  banks  in  this  way,  Silas  began  to  look  for 
the  once  familiar  herbs  again  ;  and  as  the  leaves,  with  their 
unchanged  outline  and  markings,  lay  on  his  palm,  there 
was  a  sense  of  crowding  remembrances  from  which  he 
turned  away  timidly,  taking  refuge  in  Eppie's  little  world, 
that  lay  lightly  on  his  enfeebled  spirit. 

As  the  child's  mind  was  growing  into  knowledge,  his 
mind  was  growing  into  memory  :  as  her  life  unfolded,  his 
soul,  long  stupefied  in  a  cold  narrow  prison,  was  unfolding 
too,  and  trembling  gradually  into  full  consciousness. 

It  was  an  influence  which  must  gather  force  with  every 
new  year  :  the  tones  that  stirred  Silas's  heart  grew  articu- 
late, and  called  for  moro  distinct  answers ;  shapes  and 


160  SILAS  MARNER 

sounds  grew  clearer  for  Eppie's  eyes  and  ears,  and  there 
was  more  that  "  Dad-dad  "  was  imperatively  required  to 
notice  and  account  for.  Also,  by  the  time  Eppie  was  three 
years  old,  she  developed  a  fine  capacity  for  mischief,  and 
for  devising  ingenious  ways  of  being  troublesome,  which 
found  much  exercise,  not  only  for  Silas's  patience,  but  for 
his  watchfulness  and  penetration.  Sorely  was  poor  Silas 
puzzled  on  such  occasions  by  the  incompatible  demands  of 
love.  Dolly  Winthrop  told  him  that  punishment  was 
good  for  Eppie,  and  that,  as  for.  rearing  a  child  without 
making  it  tingle  a  little  in  soft  and  safe  places  now  and 
then,  it  was  not  to  be  done. 

"To  be  sure,  there's  another  thing  you  might  do, 
Master  Marner,"  added  Dolly,  meditatively  :  "you  might 
shut  her  up  once  i'  the  coal-hole.  That  was  what  I  did  wi' 
Aaron  ;  for  I  was  that  silly  wi'  the  youngest  lad,  as  I  could 
never  bear  to  smack  him.  Not  as  I  could  find  i'  my  heart 
to  let  him  stay  i'  the  coal-hole  more  nor  a  minute,  but  it 
was  enough  to  colly  *  him  all  over,  so  as  he  must  be  new 
washed  and  dressed,  and  it  Avas  as  good  as  a  rod  to  him 
— that  was.  But  I  put  it  upo'  your  conscience,  Master 
Marner,  as  there's  one  of  'em  you  must  choose — ayther 
smacking  or  the  coal-hole — else  she'll  get  so  masterful, 
there'll  be  no  holding  her." 

Silas  was  impressed  with  the  melancholy  truth  of  this 
last  remark  ;  but  his  force  of  mind  failed  before  the  only 
two  penal  methods  open  to  him,  not  only  because  it  was 
painful  to  him  to  hurt  Eppie,  but  because  he  trembled  at 
a  moment's  contention  with  her,  lest  she  should  love  him 
the  less  for  it.  Let  even  an  affectionate  Goliath 2  get  him- 
self tied  to  a  small  tender  thing,  dreading  to  hurt  it  by 
pulling,  and  dreading  still  more  to  snap  the  cord,  and 
which  of  the  two,  pray,  will  be  master  ?  It  was  clear  that 
Eppie,  with  her  short  toddling  steps,  must  lead  father  Silas 

1  An  old  word  ;  to  make  black  as  with  coal. 

a  For  the  story  of  the  Philistine  giant,  Goliath,  slain  by  David,  see 
1  Samuel  XVII.  23-54. 


SILAS  MARNER  161 

a  pretty  dance  on  any  fine  morning  when  circumstances 
favoured  mischief. 

For  example.  He  had  wisely  chosen  a  broad  strip  of 
linen  as  a  means  of  fastening  her  to  his  loom  when  he  Avas 
busy  :  it  made  a  broad  belt  round  her  waist,  and  was  long 
enough  to  allow  of  her  reaching  the  truckle-bed  and  sit- 
ting down  on  it,  but  not  long  enough  for  her  to  attempt 
any  dangerous  climbing.  One  bright  summer's  morning 
Silas  had  been  more  engrossed  than  usual  in  "setting  up" 
a  new  piece  of  work,  an  occasion  on  which  his  scissors 
were  in  requisition.  These  scissors,  owing  to  an  especial 
warning  of  Dolly's,  had  been  kept  carefully  out  of  Eppie's 
reach  ;  but  the  click  of  them  had  had  a  peculiar  attrac- 
tion for  her  ear,  and  watching  the  results  of  that  click,  she 
had  derived  the  philosophic  lesson  that  the  same  cause 
would  produce  the  same  effect.  Silas  had  seated  himself 
in  his  loom,  and  the  noise  of  weaving  had  begun  ;  but  he 
had  left  his  scissors  on  a  ledge  which  Eppie's  arm  was  long 
enough  to  reach  ;  and  now,  like  a  small  mouse,  watching 
her  opportunity,  she  stole  quietly  from  her  corner,  secured 
the  scissors,  and  toddled  to  the  bed  again,  setting  up  her 
back  as  a  mode  of  concealing  the  fact.  She  had  a  distinct 
intention  as  to  the  use  of  the  scissors  ;  and  having  cut  the 
linen  strip  in  a  jagged  but  effectual  manner,  in  two  mo- 
ments she  had  run  out  at  the  open  door  where  the  sun- 
shine was  inviting  her,  while  poor  Silas  believed  her  to  be 
a  better  child  than  usual.  It  was  not  until  he  happened 
to  need  his  scissors  that  the  terrible  fact  burst  upon  him  : 
Eppie  had  run  out  by  herself — had  perhaps  fallen  into  the 
Stone-pit.  Silas,  shaken  by  the  worst  fear  that  could  have 
befallen  him,  rushed  out,  calling  "  Eppie  ! "  and  ran  eag- 
erly about  the  unenclosed  space,  exploring  the  dry  cavities 
into  which  she  might  have  fallen,  and  then  gazing  with 
questioning  dread  at  the  smooth  red  surface  of  the  water. 
The  cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow.  How  long  had  she  been 
out  ?  There  was  one  hope — that  she  had  crept  through 
the  stile  and  got  into  the  fields,  where  lie  habitually  took 
11 


162  SILAS  MARNER 

her  to  stroll.  But  the  grass  was  high  in  the  meadow,  and 
there  was  no  descrying  her,  if  she  were  there,  except  by  a 
close  search  that  would  be  a  trespass  on  Mr.  Osgood's  crop. 
Still,  that  misdemeanour  must  be  committed  ;  and  poor 
Silas,  after  peering  all  round  the  hedgerows,  traversed  the 
grass,  beginning  with  perturbed  vision  to  see  Eppie  be- 
hind every  group  of  red  sorrel,  and  to  see  her  moving 
always  farther  off  as  he  approached.  The  meadow  was 
searched  in  vain  ;  and  he  got  over  the  stile  into  the  next 
field,  looking  with  dying  hope  towards  a  small  pond  which, 
was  now  reduced  to  its  summer  shallowness,  so  as  to  leaf  o 
a  wide  margin  of  good  adhesive  mud.  Here,  however,  sat 
Eppie,  discoursing  cheerfully  to  her  own  small  boot,  which 
she  was  using  as  a  bucket  to  convey  the  water  into  a  deep 
hoof -mark,  while  her  little  naked  foot  was  planted  com- 
fortably on  a  cushion  of  olive-green  mud.  A  red-headed 
calf  was  observing  her  with  alarmed  doubt  through  the  op- 
posite hedge. 

Here  was  clearly  a  case  of  aberration  in  a  christened 
child  which  demanded  severe  treatment  ;  but  Silas,  over- 
come with  convulsive  joy  at  finding  his  treasure  again, 
could  do  nothing  but  snatch  her  up,  and  cover  her  with 
half -sobbing  kisses.  It  was  not  until  he  had  carried  her 
home,  and  had  begun  to  think  of  the  necessary  washing, 
that  he  recollected  the  need  that  he  should  punish  Eppie, 
and  "  make  her  remember."  The  idea  that  she  might  run 
away  again  and  come  to  harm,  gave  him  unusual  resolution, 
and  for  the  first  time  he  determined  to  try  the  coal-hole — 
a  small  closet  near  the  hearth. 

"  Naughty,  naughty  Eppie,"  he  suddenly  began,  hold- 
ing her  on  his  knee,  and  pointing  to  her  muddy  feet  and 
clothes — "naughty  to  cut  with  the  scissors  and  run  away. 
Eppie  must  go  into  the  coal-hole  for  being  naughty. 
Daddy  must  put  her  in  the  coal-hole." 

He  half-expected  that  this  would  be  shock  enough,  and 
that  Eppie  would  begin  to  cry.  But  instead  of  that,  she 
began  to  shake  herself  on  his  knee,  as  if  the  proposition 


SILAS  MARNER  163 

opened  a  pleasing  novelty.  Seeing  that  he  must  proceed 
to  extremities,  he  put  her  into  the  coal-hole,  and  held  the 
door  closed,  with  a  trembling  sense  that  he  was  using  a 
strong  measure.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  but 
then  came  a  little  cry,  "  Opy,  opy  ! "  and  Silas  let  her 
out  again,  saying,  "  NOAV  Eppie  'ull  never  be  naughty 
again,  else  she  must  go  into  the  coal-hole — a  black  naughty 
place." 

The  weaving  must  stand  still  a  long  while  this  morning, 
for  now  Eppie  must  be  washed,  and  have  clean  clothes 
on ;  but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  this  punishment  would 
have  a  lasting  effect,  and  save  time  in  future — though, 
perhaps,  it  would  have  been  better  if  Eppie  had  cried 
more. 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  clean  again,  and  Silas  having 
turned  his  back  to  see  what  he  could  do  with  the  linen 
band,  threw  it  down  again,  with  the  reflection  that  Eppie 
would  be  good  without  fastening  for  the  rest  of  the  morn- 
ing. He  turned  round  again,  and  was  going  to  place  her 
in  her  little  chair  near  the  loom,  when  she  peeped  out  at 
him  with  black  face  and  hands  again,  and  said,  "  Eppie 
in  de  toal-hole  !  " 

This  total  failure  of  the  coal-hole  discipline  shook  Silas's 
belief  in  the  efficacy  of  punishment.  "  She'd  take  it  all 
for  fun,"  he  observed  to  Dolly,  "  if  I  didn't  hurt  her,  and 
that  I  can't  do,  Mrs.  Winthrop.  If  she  makes  me  a  bit  o' 
trouble,  I  can  bear  it.  And  she's  got  no  tricks  but  what 
she'll  grow  out  of." 

"Well,  that's  partly  true,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly, 
sympathetically  ;  "  and  if  you  can't  bring  your  mind  to 
frighten  her  off  touching  things,  you  must  do  what  you 
can  to  keep  'em  out  of  her  way.  That's  what  I  do  wi'  the 
pups  as  the  lads  are  allays  a-rearing.  They  will  worry  and 
gnaw — worry  and  gnaw  they  will,  if  it  was  one's  Sunday 
cap  as  hung  anywhere  so  they  could  drag  it.  They  know 
no  difference,  God  help  'em  :  it's  the  pushing  o'  the  teeth 
as  sets  'em  on,  that's  what  it  is." 


164:  SILAS  MARNER 

So  Eppie  was  reared  without  punishment,  the  burden  of 
her  misdeeds  being  borne  vicariously  by  father  Silas.  The 
stone  hut  was  made  a  soft  nest  for  her,  lined  with  downy 
patience  :  and  also  in  the  world  that  lay  beyond  the  stone 
hut  she  knew  nothing  of  frowns  and  denials. 

Notwithstanding  the  difficulty  of  carrying  her  and  his 
yarn  or  linen  at  the  same  time,  Silas  took  her  with  him  in 
most  of  his  journeys  to  the  farm-houses,  unwilling  to  leave 
her  behind  at  Dolly  Winthrop's,  who  was  always  ready  to 
take  care  of  her ;  and  little  curly  -  headed  Eppie,  the 
weaver's  child,  became  an  object  of  interest  at  several  out- 
lying homesteads,  as  well  as  in  the  village.  Hitherto  he 
had  been  treated  very  much  as  if  he  had  been  a  useful 
gnome l  or  brownie2 — a  queer  and  unaccountable  creature, 
who  must  necessarily  be  looked  at  with  wondering  curios- 
ity and  repulsion,  and  with  whom  one  would  be  glad  to 
make  all  greetings  and  bargains  as  brief  as  possible,  but 
who  must  be  dealt  with  in  a  propitiatory  way,  and  occa- 
sionally have  a  present  of  pork  or  garden  stuff  to  carry 
home  with  him,  seeing  that  without  him  there  was  no  get- 
ting the  yarn  woven.  But  now  Silas  met  with  open  smil- 
ing faces  and  cheerful  questioning,  as  a  person  whose  satis- 
faction and  difficulties  could  be  understood.  Everywhere 
he  must  sit  a  little  and  talk  about  the  child,  and  words  of 
interest  were  always  ready  for  him  :  "  Ah,  Master  Marner, 
you'll  be  lucky  if  she  takes  the  measles  soon  and  easy  !" — 
or,  "  Why,  there  isn't  many  lone  men  'ud  ha'  been  wishing 
to  take  up  with  a  little  un  like  that  :  but  I  reckon  the 
weaving  makes  you  handier  than  men  as  do  out-door  work — 
you're  partly  as  handy  as  a  woman,  for  weaving  comes  next 
to  spinning."  Elderly  masters  and  mistresses,  seated  ob- 
servantly in  large  kitchen  arm-chairs,  shook  their  heads 
over  the  difficulties  attendant  on  rearing  children,  felt 
Eppie's  round  arms  and  legs,  and  pronounced  them  remark- 
ably firm,  and  told  Silas  that,  if  she  turned  out  well 
(which,  however,  there  was  no  telling),  it  would  be  a  fine 
1  An  earth  fairy.  2  A  household-fairy. 


SILAS  MARNER  165 

thing  for  him  to  have  a  steady  lass  to  do  for  him  when  he 
got  helpless.  Servant  maidens  were  fond  of  carrying  her 
out  to  look  at  the  hens  and  chickens,  or  to  see  if  any 
cherries  could  be  shaken  down  in  the  orchard  ;  and  the 
small  boys  and  girls  approached  her  slowly,  with  cautious 
movement  and  steady  gaze,  like  little  dogs  face  to  face  with 
one  of  their  own  kind,  till  attraction  had  reached  the  point 
at  which  the  soft  lips  were  put  out  for  a  kiss.  No  child 
was  afraid  of  approaching  Silas  when  Eppie  was  near  him  : 
there  was  no  repulsion  around  him  now,  either  for  young 
or  old  ;  for  the  little  child  had  come  to  link  him  once 
more  with  the  whole  world.  There  was  love  between  him 
and  the  child  that  blent  them  into  one,  and  there  was  love 
between  the  child  and  the  world — from  men  and  women 
with  parental  looks  and  tones,  to  the  red  lady-birds  and 
the  round  pebbles. 

Silas  began  now  to  think  of  Raveloe  life  entirely  in  rela- 
tion to  Eppie  :  she  must  have  everything  that  was  good 
in  Kaveloe ;  and  he  listened  docilely,  that  he  might  come 
to  understand  better  what  this  life  was,  from  which,  for 
fifteen  years,  he  had  stood  aloof  as  from  a  strange  thing, 
wherewith  he  could  have  no  communion  :  as  some  man 
who  has  a  precious  plant  to  which  he  would  give  a  nurtur- 
ing home  in  a  new  soil,  thinks  of  the  rain,  and  the  sun- 
shine, and  all  influences,  in  relation  to  his  nursling,  and 
asks  industriously  for  all  knowledge  that  will  help  him  to 
satisfy  the  wants  of  the  searching  roots,  or  to  guard  leaf 
and  bud  from  invading  harm.  The  disposition  to  hoard 
had  been  utterly  crushed  at  the  very  first  by  the  loss  of  his 
long-stored  gold  :  the  coins  he  earned  afterwards  seemed  as 
irrelevant  as  stones  brought  to  complete  a  house  suddenly 
buried  by  an  earthquake  ;  the  sense  of  bereavement  was  too 
heavy  upon  him  for  the  old  thrill  of  satisfaction  to  arise 
again  at  the  touch  of  the  newly-earned  coin.  And  now 
something  had  come  to  replace  his  hoard  which  gave  a 
growing  purpose  to  the  earnings,  drawing  his  hope  and  joy 
continually  onward  beyond  the  money. 


166  SILAS  MARNER 

In  old  days  there  were  angels  who  came  and  took  men 
by  the  hand  and  led  them  away  from  the  city  of  destruc- 
tion. We  see  no  white-winged  angels  now.  But  yet  men 
are  led  away  from  threatening  destruction  :  a  hand  is  put 
into  theirs,  which  leads  them  forth  gently  towards  a  calm 
and  bright  land,  so  that  they  look  no  more  backward  ;  and 
the  hand  may  be  a  little  child's. 

Why  may  this  chapter  be  called  the  crisis  of  the  story  ?  Are  there 
parts  of  the  plot  still  to  be  unfolded  ?  What  change  in  Raveloe  society 
is  to  be  noted  ? 


CHAPTER  XV 

THERE  was  one  person,  as  you  will  believe,  who  watched 
with  keener  though  more  hidden  interest  than  any  other, 
the  prosperous  growth  of  Eppie  under  the  weaver's  care. 
He  dared  not  do  anything  that  would  imply  a  stronger  in- 
terest in  a  poor  man's  adopted  child  than  could  be  expected 
from  the  kindliness  of  the  young  Squire,  when  a  chance 
meeting  suggested  a  little  present  to  a  simple  old  fellow 
whom  others  noticed  with  goodwill ;  but  he  told  himself 
that  the  time  would  come  when  he  might  do  something 
towards  furthering  the  welfare  of  his  daughter  without  in- 
curring suspicion.  Was  he  very  uneasy  in  the  meantime 
at  his  inability  to  give  his  daughter  her  birthright  ?  I  can- 
not say  that  he  was.  The  child  was  being  taken  care  of, 
and  would  very  likely  be  happy,  as  people  in  humble  sta- 
tions often  were — happier,  perhaps,  than  those  brought  up 
in  luxury. 

That  famous  ring  that  pricked  its  owner  when  he  forgot 
duty  and  followed  desire — I  wonder  if  it  pricked  very  hard 
when  he  set  out  on  the  chase,  or  whether  it  pricked  but 
lightly  then,  and  only  pierced  to  the  quick  when  the  chase 
had  long  been  ended,  and  hope,  folding  her  wings,  looked 
backward  and  became  regret  ? 

Godfrey  Cass's  cheek  and  eye  were  brighter  than  ever 
now.  He  was  so  undivided  in  his  aims,  that  he  seemed 
like  a  man  of  firmness.  No  Dunsey  had  come  back  :  peo- 
ple had  made  up  their  minds  that  he  was  gone  for  a  sol- 
dier, or  gone  "  out  of  the  country,"  and  no  one  cared  to 
be  specific  in  their  inquiries  on  a  subject  delicate  to  a 
respectable  family.  Godfrey  had  ceased  to  see  the  shadow 
of  Dunsey  across  his  path  ;  and  the  path  now  lay  straight 


168  SILAS  MARNER 

forward  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  best,  longest-cher- 
ished wishes.  Everybody  said  Mr.  Godfrey  had  taken  the 
right  turn  ;  and  it  was  pretty  clear  what  would  be  the  end 
of  things,  for  there  were  not  many  days  in  the  week  that 
he  was  not  seen  riding  to  the  Warrens.  Godfrey  himself, 
when  he  was  asked  jocosely  if  the  day  had  been  fixed, 
smiled  with  the  pleasant  consciousness  of  a  lover  who 
could  say  "  yes,"  if  he  liked.  He  felt  a  reformed  man, 
delivered  from  temptation  ;  and  the  vision  of  his  future 
life  seemed  to  him  as  a  promised  land  for  which  he  had 
no  cause  to  fight.  He  saw  himself  with  all  his  happiness 
centred  on  his  own  hearth,  while  Nancy  would  smile  on 
him  as  he  played  with  the  children. 

And  that  other  child,  not  on  the  hearth — he  would  not 
forget  it ;  he  would  see  that  it  was  well  provided  for. 
That  was  a  father's  duty.1 

1  All  the  elements  of  the  story  have  now  been  developed  ;  it  only 
remains  in  the  second  part  to  show  the  results  upon  the  various  char- 
acters of  the  actions  that  have  taken  place. 


PART  II 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

IT  was  a  bright  autumn  Sunday,  sixteen  years  after  Silas 
Marner  had  found  his  new  treasure  on  the  hearth.  The 
bells  of  the  old  Eaveloe  church  were  ringing  the  cheerful 
peal  that  told  that  the  morning  service  was  ended  ;  and 
out  of  the  arched  door-way  in  the  tower  came  slowly, 
retarded  by  friendly  greetings  and  questions,  the  richer 
parishioners  who  had  chosen  this  bright  Sunday  morning 
as  eligible  for  church-going.  It  was  the  rural  fashion  of 
that  time  for  the  more  important  members  of  the  congre- 
gation to  depart  first,  while  their  humbler  neighbours 
waited  and  looked  on,  stroking  their  bent  heads  or  drop- 
ping their  curtsies  to  any  large  ratepayer  l  who  turned  to 
notice  them. 

Foremost  among  these  advancing  groups  of  well-clad 
people,  there  are  some  whom  we  shall  recognise,  in  spite  of 
Time,  who  has  laid  his  hand  on  them  all.  The  tall  blond 
man  of  forty  is  not  much  changed  in  features  from  the 
Godfrey  Cass  of  six-and-twenty  :  he  is  only  fuller  in  flesh, 
and  has  only  lost  the  indefinable  look  of  youth — a  loss 
which  is  marked  even  when  the  eye  is  undulled  and  the 
wrinkles  are  not  yet  come.  Perhaps  the  pretty  woman, 
not  much  younger  than  he,  who  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  is 
more  changed  than  her  husband  :  the  lovely  bloom  that 
used  to  be  always  on  her  cheek  now  comes  but  fitfully, 
with  the  fresh  morning  air  or  with  some  strong  surprise  ; 
yet  to  all  who  love  human  faces  best  for  what  they 
1  Local  taxes  in  England  are  called  rates. 


170  SILAS  MARNER 

tell  of  human  experience,  Nancy's  beauty  has  a  heightened 
interest.  Often  the  soul  is  ripened  into  fuller  goodness 
while  age  has  spread  an  ugly  film,  so  that  mere  glances  can 
never  divine  the  preciousness  of  the  fruit.  But  the  years 
have  not  been  so  cruel  to  Nancy.  The  firm  yet  placid 
mouth,  the  clear  veracious  glance  of  the  brown  eyes,  speak 
now  of  a  nature  that  has  been  tested  and  has  kept  its 
highest  qualities  ;  and  even  the  costume,  with  its  dainty 
neatness  and  purity,  has  more  significance  now  the  co- 
quetries of  youth  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass  (any  higher  title  has  died 
away  from  Raveloe  lips  since  the  old  Squire  was  gathered 
to  his  fathers  and  his  inheritance  was  divided)  have  turned 
round  to  look  for  the  tall  aged  man  and  the  plainly  dressed 
woman  who  are  a  little  behind — Nancy  having  observed 
that  they  must  wait  for  "  father  and  Prigcilla  " — and  now 
they  all  turn  into  a  narrower  path  leading  across  the 
churchyard  to  a  small  gate  opposite  the  Eed  House.  AVe 
will  not  follow  them  now  ;  for  may  there  not  be  some 
others  in  this  departing  congregation  whom  we  should 
like  to  see  again — some  of  those  Avho  are  not  likely  to  be 
handsomely  clad,  and  whom  we  may  not  recognise  so  easily 
as  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  Red  House  ? 

But  it  is  impossible  to  mistake  Silas  Marner.  His  large 
brown  eyes  seem  to  have  gathered  a  longer  vision,  as  is  the 
way  with  eyes  that  have  been  short-sighted  in  early  life, 
and  they  have  a  less  vague,  a  more  answering  gaze  ;  but  in 
everything  else  one  sees  signs  of  a  frame  much  enfeebled 
by  the  lapse  of  the  sixteen  years.  The  weaver's  bent  shoul- 
ders and  white  hair  give  him  almost  the  look  of  advanced 
age,  though  he  is  not  more  than  five-and-fifty  ;  but  there 
is  the  freshest  blossom  of  youth  close  by  his  side — a  blond 
dimpled  girl  of  eighteen,  who  has  vainly  tried  to  chastise 
her  curly  auburn  hair  into  smoothness  under  her  brown 
bonnet  :  the  hair  ripples  as  obstinately  as  a  brooklet  under 
the  March  breeze,  and  the  little  ringlets  burst  away  from 
the  restraining  comb  behind  and  show  themselves  below 


SILAS  MARNER  171 

the  bonnet-crown.  Eppie  cannot  help  being  rather  vexed 
about  her  hair,  for  there  is  no  other  girl  in  Eaveloe  who 
has  hair  at  all  like  it,  and  she  thinks  hair  ought  to  be 
smooth.  She  does  not  like  to  be  blameworthy  even  in 
small  things  :  you  see  how  neatly  her  prayer-book  is  folded 
in  her  spotted  handkerchief. 

That  good-looking  young  fellow,  in  a  new  fustian  suit, 
who  walks  behind  her,  is  not  quite  sure  upon  the  question 
of  hair  in  the  abstract,  when  Eppie  puts  it  to  him,  and 
thinks  that  perhaps  straight  hair  is  the  best  in  general,  but 
he  doesn't  want  Eppie's  hair  to  be  different.  She  surely 
divines  that  there  is  some  one  behind  her  who  is  thinking 
about  her  very  particularly,  and  mustering  courage  to 
come  to  her  side  as  soon  as  they  are  out  in  the  lane,  else 
why  should  she  look  rather  shy,  and  take  care  not  to  turn 
away  her  head  from  her  father  Silas,  to  whom  she  keeps 
murmuring  little  sentences  as  to  who  was  at  church,  and 
who  was  not  at  church,  and  how  pretty  the  red  mountain- 
ash  is  over  the  Eectory  wall  ! 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  little  garden,  father,  with  double  dais- 
ies in  it,  like  Mrs.  Winthrop's,"  said  Eppie,  when  they 
were  out  in  the  lane  ;  "  only  they  say  it  'ud  take  a  deal  of 
digging  and  bringing  fresh  soil — and  you  couldn't  do  that, 
could  you,  father  ?  Anyhow,  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  do  it, 
for  it  'ud  be  too  hard  work  for  you." 

"  Yes,  I  could  do  it,  child,  if  you  want  a  bit  o'  garden  : 
these  long  evenings,  I  could  work  at  taking  in  a  little  bit 
o'  the  waste,  just  enough  for  a  root  or  two  o'  flowers  for 
you  ;  and  again,  i'  the  morning,  I  could  have  a  turn  wi' 
the  spade  before  I  sat  down  to  the  loom.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  before  as  you  wanted  a  bit  o'  garden  ?  " 

"  /can  dig  it  for  you,  Master  Marner,"  said  the  young 
man  in  fustian,  who  was  now  by  Eppie's  side,  entering  into 
the  conversation  without  the  trouble  of  formalities.  "  It'll 
be  play  to  me  after  I've  done  my  day's  work,  or  any  odd  bits 
o'  time  when  the  work's  slack.  And  I'll  bring  you  some 
soil  from  Mr.  Cass's  garden — he'll  let  me,  and  willing." 


172  SILAS  MARNER 

"  Eh,  Aaron,  my  lad,  are  you  there  ?  "  said  Silas ;  "  I 
wasn't  aware  of  you  ;  for  when  Eppie's  talking  o'  things,  I 
see  nothing  but  what  she's  a-saying.  Well,  if  you  could 
help  me  with  the  digging,  we  might  get  her  a  bit  o'  garden 
all  the  sooner." 

"  Then,  if  you  think  well  and  good,"  said  Aaron,  "  I'll 
come  to  the  Stone-pits  this  afternoon,  and  we'll  settle  what 
land's  to  be  taken  in,  and  I'll  get  up  an  hour  earlier  i'  the 
morning,  and  begin  on  it." 

"  But  not  if  you  don't  promise  me  not  to  work  at  the 
hard  digging,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  For  I  shouldn't  ha' 
said  anything  about  it,"  she  added,  half-bashfully,  half- 
roguishly,  "only  Mrs.  Winthrop  said  as  Aaron  'ud  be  so 
good,  and " 

"  And  you  might  ha' known  it  without  her  telling  you," 
said  Aaron.  "And  Master  Marner  knows  too,  I  hope,  as 
I'm  able  and  willing  to  do  a  turn  o'  work  for  him,  and  he 
won't  do  me  the  unkindness  to  anyways  take  it  out  o'  my 
hands." 

"  There,  now,  father,  you  won't  work  in  it  till  it's  all 
easy,"  said  Eppie,  "  and  you  and  me  can  mark  out  the  beds, 
and  make  holes  and  plant  the  roots.  It'll  be  a  deal  livelier 
at  the  Stone-pits  when  we've  got  some  flowers,  for  I  always 
think  the  flowers  can  see  us,  and  know  what  we're  talk- 
ing about.  And  I'll  have  a  bit  of  rosemary,  and  berga- 
mot,  and  thyme,  because  they're  so  sweet-smelling ;  but 
there's  no  lavender  only  in  the  gentlefolks'  gardens,  I 
think." 

"That's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  some,"  said 
Aaron,  "  for  I  can  bring  you  slips  of  anything  ;  I'm  forced 
to  cut  no  end  of  'em  when  I'm  gardening,  and  I  throw  'em 
away  mostly.  There's  a  big  bed  o'  lavender  at  the  Red 
House  ;  the  missis  is  very  fond  of  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Silas,  gravely,  "  so  as  you  don't  make  free 
for  us,  or  ask  for  anything  as  is  worth  much  at  the  Red 
House  :  for  Mr.  Cass's  been  so  good  to  us,  and  built  us  up 
the  new  end  o'  the  cottage,  and  given  us  beds  and  things. 


SILAS  MARNER  173 

as  I  couldn't  abide  to  be  imposin'  for  garden-stuff  or  any- 
thing else." 

"  No,  no,  there's  no  imposing"  said  Aaron  ;  "  there's 
never  a  garden  in  all  the  parish  but  what  there's  endless 
waste  in  it  for  want  o'  somebody  as  could  use  everything 
up.  It's  what  I  think  to  myself  sometimes,  as  there  need 
nobody  run  short  o'  victuals  if  the  land  was  made  the  most 
on,  and  there  was  never  a  morsel  but  what  could  find  its 
way  to  a  mouth.  It  sets  one  thinking  o'  that — gardening 
does.  But  I  must  go  back  now,  else  mother  'ull  be  in 
trouble  as  I  aren't  there." 

"  Bring  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  Aaron,"  said  Ep- 
pie  ;  "I  shouldn't  like  to  fix  about  the  garden,  and  her 
not  know  everything  from  the  first — should  you,  father  ?  " 

"  Ay,  bring  her  if  you  can,  Aaron,"  said  Silas  ;  "  she's 
sure  to  have  a  word  to  say  as  '11  help  us  to  set  things  on 
their  right  end." 

Aaron  turned  back  up  the  village,  while  Silas  and  Ep- 
pie  went  on  up  the  lonely  sheltered  lane. 

"  0  daddy  ! "  she  began,  when  they  were  in  privacy, 
clasping  and  squeezing  Silas's  arm,  and  skipping  round  to 
give  him  an  energetic  kiss.  "  My  little  old  daddy  !  I'm 
so  glad.  I  don't  think  I  shall  want  anything  else  when 
we've  got  a  little  garden  ;  and  I  knew  Aaron  would  dig  it 
for  us,"  she  went  on  with  roguish  triumph — "  I  knew  that 
very  well." 

"  You're  a  deep  little  puss,  you  are,"  said  Silas,  with 
the  mild  passive  happiness  of  love -crowned  age  in  his 
face;  "but  you'll  make  yourself  fine  and  beholden  to 
Aaron." 

"  0  no,  I  shan't,"  said  Eppie,  laughing  and  frisking  ; 
"he  likes  it." 

"  Come,  come,  let  me  carry  your  prayer-book,  else  you'll 
be  dropping  it,  jumping  i'  that  way." 

Eppie  was  now  aware  that  her  behaviour  was  under  ob- 
servation, but  it  was  only  the  observation  of  a  friendly 
donkey,  browsing  with  a  log  fastened  to  his  foot — a  meek 


174  SILAS  MARNER 

donkey,  not  scornfully  critical  of  human  trivialities,  but 
thankful  to  share  in  them,  if  possible,  by  getting  his  nose 
scratched  ;  and  Eppie  did  not  fail  to  gratify  him  with  her 
usual  notice,  though  it  was  attended  with  the  inconveni- 
ence of  his  following  them,  painfully,  up  to  the  very  door 
of  their  home. 

But  the  sound  of  a  sharp  bark  inside,  as  Eppie  put  the 
key  in  the  door,  modified  the  donkey's  views,  and  he 
limped  away  again  without  bidding.  The  sharp  bark  was 
the  sign  of  an  excited  welcome  that  was  awaiting  them 
from  a  knowing  brown  terrier,  who,  after  dancing  at  their 
legs  in  a  hysterical  manner,  rushed  with  a  worrying  noise 
at  a  tortoise-shell  kitten  under  the  loom,  and  then  rushed 
back  with  a  sharp  bark  again,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  have 
done  my  duty  by  this  feeble  creature,  you  perceive  ; " 
while  the  lady-mother  of  the  kitten  sat  sunning  her  white 
bosom  in  the  window,  and  looked  round  with  a  sleepy  air 
of  expecting  caresses,  though  she  was  not  going  to  take 
any  trouble  for  them. 

The  presence  of  this  happy  animal  life  was  not  the  only 
change  which  had  come  over  the  interior  of  the  stone  cot- 
tage. There  was  no  bed  now  in  the  living-room,  and  the 
small  space  was  well  rilled  with  decent  furniture,  all  bright 
and  clean  enough  to  satisfy  Dolly  Winthrop's  eye.  The 
oaken  table  and  three-cornered  oaken  chair  were  hardly 
what  was  likely  to  be  seen  in  so  poor  a  cottage  :  they  had 
come,  with  the  beds  and  other  things,  from  the  Red  House  ; 
for  Mr.  Godfrey  Cass,  as  every  one  said  in  the  village,  did 
very  kindly  by  the  weaver  ;  and  it  was  nothing  but  right 
a  man  should  be  looked  on  and  helped  by  those  who  could 
afford  it,  when  he  had  brought  up  an  orphan  child,  and 
been  father  and  mother  to  her — and  had  lost  his  money 
too,  so  as  he  had  nothing  but  what  he  worked  for  week  by 
week,  and  when  the  weaving  was  going  down  too — for 
there  was  less  and  less  flax  spun — and  Master  Marner  was 
none  so  young.  Nobody  was  jealous  of  the  weaver,  for  he 
was  regarded  as  an  exceptional  person,  whose  claims  on 


8ILA8  MARNER  175 

neighbourly  help  were  not  to  be  matched  in  Raveloe.  Any 
superstition  that  remained  concerning  him  had  taken  an 
entirely  new  colour  ;  and  Mr.  Macey,  now  a  very  feeble  old 
man  of  fourscore  and  six,  never  seen  except  in  his  chimney- 
corner  or  sitting  in  the  sunshine  at  his  door-sill,  was  of 
opinion  that  when  a  man  had  done  what  Silas  had  done  by 
an  orphan  child,  it  was  a  sign  that  his  money  would  come 
to  light  again,  or  leastwise  that  the  robber  would  be  made 
to  answer  for  it — for,  as  Mr.  Macey  observed  of  himself, 
his  faculties  were  as  strong  as  ever. 

Silas  sat  down  now  and  watched  Eppie  with  a  satisfied 
gaze  as  she  spread  the  clean  cloth,  and  set  on  it  the  potato- 
pie,  warmed  up  slowly  in  a  safe  Sunday  fashion,  by  being 
put  into  a  dry  pot  over  a  slowly-dying  fire,  as  the  best  sub- 
stitute for  an  oven.  For  Silas  would  not  consent  to  have 
a  grate  and  oven  added  to  his  conveniences  :  he  loved  the 
old  brick  hearth  as  he  had  loved  his  brown  pot — and  was 
it  not  there  when  he  had  found  Eppie  ?  The  gods  of  the 
hearth  l  exist  for  us  still  ;  and  let  all  new  faith  be  tolerant 
of  that  fetishism,2  lest  it  bruise  its  own  roots. 

Silas  ate  his  dinner  more  silently  than  usual,  soon  lay- 
ing down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  watching  half-abstractedly 
Eppie's  play  with  Snap  and  the  cat,  by  which  her  own  din- 
ing was  made  rather  a  lengthy  business.  Yet  it  was  a 
sight  that  might  well  arrest  wandering  thoughts  :  Eppie, 
with  the  rippling  radiance  of  her  hair  and  the  whiteness 
of  her  rounded  chin  and  throat  set  off  by  the  dark -blue 
cotton  gown,  laughing  merrily  as  the  kitten  held  on  with 
her  four  claws  to  one  shoulder,  like  a  design  for  a  jug- 
handle,  while  Snap  on  the  right  hand  and  Puss  on  the 
other  put  up  their  paws  towards  a  morsel  which  she  held 
out  of  the  reach  of  both — Snap  occasionally  desisting  in 
order  to  remonstrate  with  the  cat  by  a  cogent  worrying 

1  The  Lares  and  the  Penates  were  the  Roman  deities  of  the  hearth, 
the  guardians  of  the  family. 

2  A  superstitious  worship  by  savages  of  charms  or  talismans ;  this 
word  has  an  interesting  history. 


176  8ILA8  MARNER 

growl  on  the  greediness  and  f  utility  of  her  conduct ;  till 
Eppie  relented,  caressed  them  both,  and  divided  the  morsel 
between  them. 

But  at  last  Eppie,  glancing  at  the  clock,  checked  the 
play,  and  said,  "  0  daddy,  you're  wanting  to  go  into  the 
sunshine  to  smoke  your  pipe.  But  I  must  clear  away  first, 
so  as  the  house  may  be  tidy  when  godmother  comes.  Fll 
make  haste — I  won't  be  long." 

Silas  had  taken  to  smoking  a  pipe  daily  during  the  last 
two  years,  having  been  strongly  urged  to  it  by  the  sages  of 
Raveloe,  as  a  practice  "  good  for  the  fits  ;"  and  this  ad- 
vice was  sanctioned  by  Dr.  Kimble,  on  the  ground  that  it 
was  as  well  to  try  what  could  do  no  harm — a  principle 
which  was  made  to  answer  for  a  great  deal  of  work  in  that 
gentleman's  medical  practice.  Silas  did  not  highly  enjoy 
smoking,  and  often  wondered  how  his  neighbours  could  be 
so  fond  of  it ;  but  a  humble  sort  of  acquiescence  in  what 
was  held  to  be  good,  had  become  a  strong  habit  of  that 
new  self  which  had  been  developed  in  him  since  he  had 
found  Eppie  on  his  hearth  :  it  had  been  the  only  c?ow  his 
bewildered  mind  could  hold  by  in  cherishing  this  young 
life  that  had  been  sent  to  him  out  of  the  darkness  into 
which  his  gold  had  departed.  By  seeking  what  was  need- 
ful for  Eppie,  by  sharing  the  effect  that  everything  pro- 
duced on  her,  he  had  himself  come  to  appropriate  the 
forms  of  custom  and  belief  which  were  the  mould  of 
Raveloe  life ;  and  as,  with  reawakening  sensibilities,  mem- 
ory also  reawakened,  he  had  begun  to  ponder  over  the  ele- 
ments of  his  old  faith,  and  blend  them  with  his  new 
impressions,  till  he  recovered  a  consciousness  of  unity  be- 
tween his  past  and  present.  The  sense  of  presiding  good- 
ness and  the  human  trust  which  come  with  all  pure  peace 
and  joy,  had  given  him  a  dim  impression  that  there  had 
been  some  error,  some  mistake,  which  had  thrown  that 
dark  shadow  over  the  days  of  his  best  years ;  and  as  it 
grew  more  and  more  easy  to  him  to  open  his  mind  to  Dolly 
Winthrop,  he  gradually  communicated  to  her  all  he  could 


SILAS  MARNER  177 

describe  of  his  early  life.  The  communication  was  neces- 
sarily a  slow  and  difficult  process,  for  Silas's  meagre  power 
of  explanation  was  not  aided  by  any  readiness  of  inter- 
pretation in  Dolly,  whose  narrow  outward  experience  gave 
her  no  key  to  strange  customs,  and  made  every  novelty  a 
source  of  wonder  that  arrested  them  at  every  step  of  the 
narrative.  It  was  only  by  fragments,  and  at  intervals 
which  left  Dolly  time  to  revolve  what  she  had  heard  till  it 
acquired  some  familiarity  for  her,  that  Silas  at  last  ar- 
rived at  the  climax  of  the  sad  story — the  drawing  of  lots, 
and  its  false  testimony  concerning  him ;  and  this  had  to 
be  repeated  in  several  interviews,  under  new  questions  on 
her  part  as  to  the  nature  of  this  plan  for  detecting  the 
guilty  and  clearing  the  innocent. 

"  And  yourn's  the  same  Bible,  you're  sure  o'  that,  Master 
Marner — the  Bible  as  you  brought  wi'  you  from  that  coun- 
try— it's  the  same  as  what  they've  got  at  church,  and  what 
Eppie's  a-learning  to  read  in  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Silas,  "  every  bit  the  same ;  and  there's 
drawing  o'  lots  in  the  Bible,  mind  you,"  he  added  in  a 
lower  tone. 

"  0  dear,  dear,"  said  Dolly  in  a  grieved  voice,  as  if  she 
were  hearing  an  unfavourable  report  of  a  sick  man's  case. 
She  was  silent  for  some  minutes  ;  at  last  she  said — 

"  There's  wise  folks,  happen,  as  know  how  it  all  is  ;  the 
parson  knows,  I'll  be  bound  ;  but  it  takes  big  words  to  tell 
them  things,  and  such  as  poor  folks  can't  make  much  out 
on.  I  can  never  rightly  know  the  meaning  o'  what  I  hear 
at  church,  only  a  bit  here  and  there,  but  I  know  it's  good 
words — I  do.  But  what  lies  upo'  your  mind — it's  this, 
Master  Marner  :  as.  if  Them  above  had  done  the  right 
thing  by  you,  They'd  never  ha'  let  you  be  turned  out  for 
a  wicked  thief  when  you  was  innicent." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Silas,  who  had  now  come  to  understand 
Dolly's  phraseology,  "  that  was  what  fell  on  me  like  as  if 
it  had  been  red-hot  iron  ;  because,  you  see,  there  was  no- 
body as  cared  for  me  or  clave  to  me  above  nor  below.  And 
12 


178  BILA8  MARNER 

him  as  I'd  gone  out  and  in  wi'  for  ten  year  and  more,  since 
when  we  was  lads  and  went  halves- — mine  own  familiar 
friend  1  in  whom  I  trusted,  had  lifted  up  his  heel  again' 
me,  and  worked  to  ruin  me." 

"  Eh,  but  he  was  a  bad  un — I  can't  think  as  there's  an- 
other such,"  said  Dolly.  "But  I'm  o'ercome,  Master 
Marner  ;  I'm  like  as  if  I'd  waked  and  didn't  know  whether 
it  was  night  or  morning.  I  feel  somehow  as  sure  as  I  do 
when  I've  laid  something  up,  though  I  can't  justly  put 
my  hand  on  it,  as  there  was  a  rights  in  what  happened 
to  you,  if  one  could  but  make  it  out ;  and  you'd  no  call  to 
lose  heart  as  you  did.  But  we'll  talk  on  it  again ;  for 
sometimes  things  come  into  my  head  when  I'm  leeching2 
or  poulticing,  or  such,  as  I  could  never  think  on  when  I 
was  sitting  still." 

Dolly  was  too  useful  a  woman  not  to  have  many  oppor- 
tunities of  illumination  of  the  kind  she  alluded  to,  and  she 
was  not  long  before  she  recurred  to  the  subject. 

"  Master  Marner,"  she  said,  one  day  that  she  came  to 
bring  home  Eppie's  washing,  "  I've  been  sore  puzzled  for 
a  good  bit  wi'  that  trouble  o'  yourn  and  the  drawing  o' 
lots  ;  and  it  got  twisted  back'ards  and  for'ards,  as  I  didn't 
know  which  end  to  lay  hold  on.  But  it  come  to  me  all 
clear  like,  that  night  when  I  was  sitting  up  wi'  poor  Bessy 
Fawkes,  as  is  dead  and  left  her  children  behind,  God  help 
'em — it  come  to  me  as  clear  as  daylight ;  but  whether  I've 
got  hold  on  it  now,  or  can  anyways  bring  it  to  my  tongue's 
end,  that  I  don't  know.  For  I've  often  a  deal  inside  mo 
as  '11  never  come  out ;  and  for  what  you  talk  o'  your  folks 
in  your  old  country  niver  saying  prayers  by  heart  nor  say- 
ing 'em  oat  of  a  book,  they  must  be  wonderful  cliver  ;  for 
if  I  didn't  know  '  Our  Father,'  and  little  bits  o'  good  words 
as  I  can  carry  out  o'  church  wi'  me,  I  might  down  o'  my 
knees  every  night,  but  nothing  could  I  say." 

1  "  Mine  own  familiar  friend"  :  note  that  Silas  Marner's  conversa 
tion  here,  as  in  Chapter  I. ,  is  full  of  Biblical  phrases. 
"  Applying  leeches  to  bleed  a  patient. 


SILAS  MARNER 

"  But  you  can  mostly  say  something  as  I  can  make  sense 
on,  Mrs.  Winthrop,"  said  Silas. 

' ( Well,  then,  Master  Marner,  it  come  to  me  summat  like 
this  :  I  can  make  nothing  o'  the  drawing  o'  lots  and  the 
answer  coming  wrong  ;  it  'ud  mayhap  take  the  parson  to 
tell  that,  and  he  could  only  tell  us  i'  big  words.  But  what 
come  to  me  as  clear  as  the  daylight,  it  was  when  I  was 
troubling  over  poor  Bessy  Fawkes,  and  it  allays  comes  into 
my  head  when  I'm  sorry  for  folks,  and  feel  as  I  can't  do  a 
power  to  help  'em,  not  if  I  was  to  get  up  i'  the  middle  o' 
the  night — it  comes  into  my  head  as  Them  above  has  got 
a  deal  tenderer  heart  nor  what  I've  got — for  I  can't  be  any- 
ways better  nor  Them  as  made  me  ;  and  if  anything  looks 
hard  to  me,  it's  because  there's  things  I  don't  know  on  ; 
and  for  the  matter  o'  that,  there  may  be  plenty  o'  things  I 
don't  know  on,  for  it's  little  as  I  know — that  it  is.  And 
so,  while  I  was  thinking  o'  that,  you  come  into  my  mind, 

Master  Marner,  and  it  all  come  pouring  in  : if  /  felt  i' 

my  inside  what  was  the  right  and  just  thing  by  you,  and 
them  as  prayed  and  drawed  the  lots,  all  but  that  wicked 
un,  if  they'd,  ha'  done  the  right  thing  by  you  if  they  could, 
isn't  there  Them  as  was  at  the  making  on  us,  and  knows 
better  and  has  a  better  will  ?  And  that's  all  as  ever  I  can 
be  sure  on,  and  everything  else  is  a  big  puzzle  to  me  when 
I  think  on  it.  For  there  was  the  fever  come  and  took  off 
them  as  were  full-growed,  and  left  the  helpless  children  ; 
and  there's  the  breaking  o'  limbs ;  and  them  as  'ud  do  right 
and  be  sober  have  to  suffer  by  them  as  are  contrairy — eh, 
there's  trouble  i'  this  world,  and  there's  things  as  we  can 
niver  make  out  the  rights  on.  And  all  as  we've  got  to  do 
is  to  trusten,1  Master  Marner — to  do  the  right  thing  as  fur 
as  we  know,  and  to  trusten.  For  if  us  as  knows  so  little 
can  see  a  bit  o'  good  and  rights,  we  may  be  sure  as  there's 
a  good  and  a  rights  bigger  nor  what  we  can  know — I  .feel 
it  i'  my  own  inside  as  it  must  be  so.  And  if  you  could 
but  ha'  gone  on  trustening,  Master  Marner,  you  wouldn't 

1  The  original  form  of  the  infinitive,  as  found  in  Middle  English. 


180  SILAS  MARNER 

ha*  run  away  from  your  fellow  -  creatures  and  been  so 
lone." 

"  Ah,  but  that  'ud  ha'  been  hard/'  said  Silas,  in  an  under- 
tone ;  "  it  'ud  ha'  been  hard  to  trusten  then." 

"  And  so  it  would,"  said  Dolly,  almost  with  compunc- 
tion ;  "  them  things  are  easier  said  nor  done  ;  and  I'm 
partly  ashamed  o'  talking." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Silas,  "  you're  i'  the  right,  Mrs.  Win- 
throp — you're  i'  the  right.  There's  good  i'  this  world — 
I've  a  feeling  o'  that  now  ;  and  it  makes  a  man  feel  as 
there's  a  good  more  nor  he  can  see,  i'  spite  o'  the  trouble 
and  the  wickedness.  That  drawing  o'  the  lots  is  dark  ; 
but  the  child  was  sent  to  me  :  there's  dealings  with  us — 
there's  dealings." 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  Eppie's  earlier  years,  when 
Silas  had  to  part  with  her  for  two  hours  every  day,  that 
she  might  learn  to  read  at  the  dame  school,  after  he  had 
vainly  tried  himself  to  guide  her  in  that  first  step  to  learn- 
ing. Now  that  she  was  grown  up,  Silas  had  often  been 
led,  in  those  moments  of  quiet  outpouring  which  come  to 
people  who  live  together  in  perfect  love,  to  talk  with  her 
too  of  the  past,  and  how  and  why  he  had  lived  a  lonely 
man  until  she  had  been  sent  to  him.  For  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  hide  from  Eppie  that  she  was 
not  his  OAvn  child  :  even  if  the  most  delicate  reticence  on 
the  point  could  have  been  expected  from  Eaveloe  gossips 
in  her  presence,  her  own  questions  about  her  mother  could 
not  have  been  parried,  as  she  grew  up,  without  that  com- 
plete shrouding  of  the  past  which  would  have  made  a  pain- 
ful barrier  between  their  minds.  So  Eppie  had  long 
known  how  her  mother  had  died  on  the  snowy  ground, 
and  how  she  herself  had  been  found  on  the  hearth  by 
father  Silas,  who  had  taken  her  golden  curls  for  his  lost 
guineas  brought  back  to  him.  The  tender  and  peculiar 
love  with  which  Silas  had  reared  her  in  almost  inseparable 
companionship  with  himself,  aided  by  the  seclusion  of 
their  dwelling,  had  preserved  her  from  the  lowering  in- 


SILAS  MARNER  181 

fluenccs  of  the  village  talk  and  habits,  and  had  kept  her 
mind  in  that  freshness  which  is  sometimes  falsely  supposed 
to  be  an  invariable  attribute  of  rusticity.  Perfect  love  has 
a  breath  of  poetry  which  can  exalt  the  relations  of  the 
least-instructed  human  beings  ;  and  this  breath  of  poetry 
had  surrounded  Eppie  from  the  time  when  she  had  fol- 
lowed the  bright  gleam  that  beckoned  her  to  Silas's  hearth  ; 
so  that  it  is  not  surprising  if,  in  other  things  besides  her 
delicate  prettiness,  she  was  not  quite  a  common  village 
maiden,  but  had  a  touch  of  refinement  and  fervour  which 
came  from  no  other  teaching  than  that  of  tenderly-nurt- 
ured unvitiated  feeling.  She  was  too  childish  and  simple 
for  her  imagination  to  rove  into  questions  about  her  un- 
known father  ;  for  a  long  while  it  did  not  even  occur  to 
her  that  she  must  have  had  a  father  ;  and  the  first  time 
that  the  idea  of  her  mother  having  had  a  husband 
presented  itself  to  her,  was  when  Silas  showed  her  the 
wedding-ring  which  had  been  taken  from  the  wasted  fin- 
ger, and  had  been  carefully  preserved  by  him  in  a  little 
lackered  box  shaped  like  a  shoe.  He  delivered  this  box  in- 
to Eppie's  charge  when  she  had  grown  up,  and  she  often 
opened  it  to  look  at  the  ring  :  but  still  she  thought  hardly 
at  all  about  the  father  of  whom  it  was  the  symbol.  Had 
she  not  a  father  very  close  to  her,  who  loved  her  better 
than  any  real  fathers  in  the  village  seemed  to  love  their 
daughters  ?  On  the  contrary,  who  her  mother  was,  and 
how  she  came  to  die  in  that  forlornness,  were  questions 
that  often  pressed  on  Eppie's  mind.  Her  knowledge  of 
Mrs.  Winthrop,  who  was  her  nearest  friend  next  to  Silas, 
made  her  feel  that  a  mother  must  be  very  precious  ;  and 
she  had  again  and  again  asked  Silas  to  tell  her  how  her 
mother  looked,  whom  she  was  like,  and  how  he  had  found 
her  against  the  furze  bush,  led  towards  it  by  the  little  foot- 
steps and  the  outstretched  arms.  The  furze  bush  was  there 
still  ;  and  this  afternoon,  when  Eppie  came  out  with  Silas 
into  the  sunshine,  it  was  the  first  object  that  arrested  her 
eyes  and  thoughts. 


182  8ILA8  MARNER 

"  Father/'  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  gravity,  which 
sometimes  came  like  a  sadder,  slower  cadence  across  her 
playfulness,  "  we  shall  take  the  furze  bush  into  the  garden  ; 
it  '11  come  into  the  corner,  and  just  against  it  I'll  put  snow- 
drops and  crocuses,  'cause  Aaron  says  they  won't  die  out, 
but  '11  always  get  more  and  more/' 

"  Ah,  child,"  said  Silas,  always  ready  to  talk  when  he 
had  his  pipe  in  his  hand,  apparently  enjoying  the  pauses 
more  than  the  puffs,  "  it  wouldn't  do  to  leave  out  the 
furze  bush  ;  and  there's  nothing  prettier  to  my  thinking, 
when  it's  yallow  with  flowers.  But  it's  just  come  into  my 
head  what  we're  to  do  for  a  fence — mayhap  Aaron  can  help 
us  to  a  thought ;  but  a  fence  we  must  have,  else  the  don- 
keys and  things  'ull  come  and  trample  everything  down. 
And  fencing's  hard  to  be  got  at,  by  what  I  can  make  out." 

"  0,  I'll  tell  you,  daddy,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  her 
hands  suddenly,  after  a  minute's  thought.  "  There's  lots 
o'  loose  stones  about,  some  of  'em  not  big,  and  we  might 
lay  'em  atop  of  one  another,  and  make  a  wall.  You  and 
me  could  carry  the  smallest,  and  Aaron  'ud  carry  the  rest 
— I  know  he  would." 

"  Eh,  my  precious  un,"  said  Silas,  "  there  isn't  enough 
stones  to  go  all  round  ;  and  as  for  you  carrying,  why,  wi' 
your  little  arms  you  couldn't  carry  a  stone  no  bigger  than 
a  turnip.  You're  dillicate  made,  my  dear,"  he  added,  with 
a  tender  intonation — "  that's  what  Mrs.  Winthrop  says." 

"  0,  I'm  stronger  than  you  think,  daddy,"  said  Eppie  ; 
"  and  if  there  wasn't  stones  enough  to  go  all  round,  why 
they'll  go  part  o'  the  way,  and  then  it  '11  be  easier  to  get 
sticks  and  things  for  the  rest.  See  here,  round  the  big 
pit,  what  a  many  stones  ! " 

She  skipped  forward  to  the  pit,  meaning  to  lift  one  of 
the  stones  and  exhibit  her  strength,  but  she  started  back 
in  surprise. 

"  0,  father,  just  come  and  look  here,"  she  exclaimed — 
"  come  and  see  how  the  water's  gone  down  since  yesterday. 
Why,  yesterday  the  pit  was  ever  so  full  ! " 


8ILA8  MARNER  183 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,"  said  Silas,  coming  to  her  side. 
"  Why,  that's  the  draining  they've  begun  on,  since  har- 
vest, i'  Mr.  Osgood's  fields,  I  reckon.  The  foreman  said 
to  me  the  other  day,  when  I  passed  by  'em,  '  Master  Mar- 
ner/  he  said,  '  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  lay  your  bit  oj 
waste  as  dry  as  a  bone/  It  was  Mr.  Godfrey  Oass,  he  said, 
had  gone  into  the  draining  :  he'd  been  taking  these  fields 
o'  Mr.  Osgood." 

"  How  odd  it  '11  seem  to  have  the  old  pit  dried  up  ! " 
said  Eppie,  turning  away,  and  stooping  to  lift  rather  a 
large  stone.  "  See,  daddy,  I  can  carry  this  quite  well," 
she  said,  going  along  with  much  energy  for  a  few  steps,  but 
presently  letting  it  fall. 

"  Ah,  you're  fine  and  strong,  arn't  you  ? "  said  Silas, 
while  Eppie  shook  her  aching  arms  and  laughed.  "  Come, 
come,  let  us  go  and  sit  down  011  the  bank  against  the  stile 
there,  and  have  no  more  lifting.  You  might  hurt  your- 
self, child.  You'd  need  have  somebody  to  work  for  you — 
and  my  arm  isn't  overstrong." 

Silas  uttered  the  last  sentence  slowly,  as  if  it  implied 
more  than  met  the  ear  ;  and  Eppie,  when  they  sat  down  on 
the  bank,  nestled  close  to  his  side,  and,  taking  hold  caress- 
ingly of  the  arm  that  was  not  overstrong,  held  it  on  her 
lap,  while  Silas  puffed  again  dutifully  at  the  pipe,  which 
occupied  his  other  arm.  An  ash  in  the  hedgerow  behind 
made  a  fretted  screen  from  the  sun,  and  threw  happy  play- 
ful shadows  all  about  them. 

"  Father,"  said  Eppie,  very  gently,  after  they  had  been 
sitting  in  silence  a  little  while,  "  if  I  was  to  be  married, 
ought  I  to  be  married  with  my  mother's  ring  ?  " 

Silas  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  start,  though  the 
question  fell  in  with  the  under-current  of  thought  in  his 
own  mind,  and  then  said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  Why,  Ep- 
pie, have  you  been  a-thinking  on  it  ?  " 

"Only  this  last  week,  father,"  said  Eppie,  ingenuously, 
"  since  Aaron  talked  to  me  about  it." 

"And  what  did  he  say  ?"  said  Silas,  still  in  the  same 


184  SILAS  MARNER 

subdued  way,  as  if  he  were  anxious  lest  he  should  fall  into 
the  slightest  tone  that  was  not  for  Eppie's  good. 

' ( He  said  he  should  like  to  be  married,  because  he  was 
a-going  in  four-and-twenty,  and  had  got  a  deal  of  garden- 
ing work,  now  Mr.  Mott's  given  up ;  and  he  goes  twice 
a-week  regular  to  Mr.  Cass's,  and  once  to  Mr.  Osgood's, 
and  they're  going  to  take  him  on  at  the  Kectory." 

"And  who  is  it  as  he's  wanting  to  marry  ?"  said  Silas, 
with  rather  a  sad  smile. 

"  Why,  me,  to  be  sure,  daddy/'  said  Eppie,  with  dim- 
pling  laughter,  kissing  her  father's  cheek;  "as  if  he'd 
want  to  marry  anybody  else  ! " 

"  And  you  mean  to  have  him,  do  you  ?  "  said  Silas. 

"Yes,  some  time/'  said  Eppie,  "I  don't  know  when. 
Everybody's  married  some  time,  Aaron  says.  But  I  told 
him  that  wasn't  true  :  for,  I  said,  look  at  father — he's  never 
been  married." 

"  No,  child,"  said  Silas,  "  your  father  was  a  lone  man 
till  you  was  sent  to  him." 

"  But  you'll  never  be  lone  again,  father,"  said  Eppie, 
tenderly.  "That  was  what  Aaron  said — 'I  could  never 
think  o'  taking  you  away  from  Master  Marner,  Eppie/ 
And  I  said,  '  It  'ud  be  no  use  if  you  did,  Aaron.'  And  he 
wants  us  all  to  live  together,  so  as  you  needn't  work  a  bit, 
father,  only  what's  for  your  own  pleasure  ;  and  he'd  be  as 
good  as  a  son  to  you — that  was  what  he  said." 

"  And  should  you  like  that,  Eppie  ?  "  said  Silas,  looking 
at  her. 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  it,  father,"  said  Eppie,  quite  simply. 
' '  And  I  should  like  things  to  be  so  as  you  needn't  work 
much.  But  if  it  wasn't  for  that,  I'd  sooner  things  didn't 
change.  I'm  very  happy  :  I  like  Aaron  to  be  fond  of  me, 
and  come  and  see  us  often,  and  behave  pretty  to  you — he 
always  does  behave  pretty  to  you,  doesn't  he,  father  ?  " 

"Yes,  child,  nobody  could  behave  better,"  said  Silas, 
emphatically.  "  He's  his  mother's  lad." 

"  But  I  don't  want  any  change,"  said  Eppie.     "  I  should 


SILAS  MARNER  185 

like  to  go  on  a  long,  long  while,  just  as  we  are.  Only 
Aaron  does  want  a  change ;  and  he  made  me  cry  a  bit — • 
only  a  bit — because  he  said  I  didn't  care  for  him,  for  if  I 
cared  for  him  I  should  want  us  to  be  married,  as  he  did." 

"  Eh,  my  blessed  child,"  said  Silas,  laying  down  his  pipe 
as  if  it  were  useless  to  pretend  to  smoke  any  longer,  te  you're 
o'er  young  to  be  married.  We'll  ask  Mrs.  Winthrop — we'll 
ask  Aaron's  mother  what  she  thinks  :  if  there's  a  right  thing 
to  do,  she'll  come  at  it.  But  there's  this  to  be  thought  on, 
Eppie  :  things  will  change,  whether  we  like  it  or  no  ;  things 
won't  go  on  for  a  long  while  just  as  they  are  and  no  differ- 
ence. I  shall  get  older  and  helplesser,  and  be  a  burden  on 
you,  belike,  if  I  don't  go  away  from  you  altogether.  Not 
as  I  mean  you'd  think  me  a  burden — I  know  you  wouldn't 
— but  it  'ud  be  hard  upon  you  ;  and  when  I  look  for'ard  to 
that,  I  like  to  think  as  you'd  have  somebody  else  besides 
me — somebody  young  and  strong,  as  '11  outlast  your  own 
life,  and  take  care  on  you  to  the  end."  Silas  paused,  and, 
resting  his  wrists  on  his  knees,  lifted  his  hands  up  and 
down  meditatively  as  he  looked  on  the  ground. 

"  Then,  would  you  like  me  to  be  married,  father  ?"  said 
Eppie,  with  a  little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

"  I'll  not  be  the  man  to  say  no,  Eppie,"  said  Silas,  em- 
phatically ;  "  but  we'll  ask  your  god-mother.  She'll  wish 
the  right  thing  by  you  and  her  son  too." 

"  There  they  come  then,"  said  Eppie.  "  Let  us  go  and 
meet  'em.  0  the  pipe !  won't  you  have  it  lit  again, 
father  ? "  said  Eppie,  lifting  that  medicinal  appliance 
from  the  ground. 

"Nay,  child,"  said  Silas,  "  I've  done  enough  for  to-day. 
I  think,  mayhap,  a  little  of  it  does  me  more  good  than  so 
much  at  once." 

Describe  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  Silas  Marner's  char- 
acter. At  this  point  the  story  is  taken  up  from  the  point  of  view  of 
Marner  rather  than  of  Godfrey  Cass.  Why  ? 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHILE  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  on  the  bank  discours 
ing  in  the  fleckered J  shade  of  the  ash-tree,  Miss  Priscilla 
Lammeter  was  resisting  her  sister's  arguments,  that  it 
would  be  better  to  take  tea  at  the  Ked  House,  and  let  her 
father  have  a  long  nap,  than  drive  home  to  the  Warrens 
so  soon  after  dinner.  The  family  party  (of  four  only) 
were  seated  round  the  table  in  the  dark  wainscoted  par- 
lour, with  the  Sunday  dessert  before  them,  of  fresh  fil- 
berts, apples,  and  pears,  duly  ornamented  with  leaves  by 
Nancy's  own  hand  before  the  bells  had  rung  for  church. 

A  great  change  has  come  over  the  dark  wainscoted  par- 
lour since  we  saw  it  in  Godfrey's  bachelor  days,  and  under 
the  wifeless  reign  of  the  old  Squire.  Now  all  is  polish,  on 
which  no  yesterday's  dust  is  ever  allowed  to  rest,  from  the 
yard's  width  of  oaken  boards  round  the  carpet,  to  the  old 
Squire's  gun  and  whips  and  walking-sticks,  ranged  on  the 
stag's  antlers  above  the  mantelpiece.  All  other  signs  of 
sporting  and  outdoor  occupation  Nancy  has  removed  to 
another  room ;  but  she  has  brought  into  the  Eed  House 
the  habit  of  filial  reverence,  and  preserves  sacredly  in  a 
place  of  honour  these  relics  of  her  husband's  departed 
father.  The  tankards  are  on  the  side-table  still,  but  the 
bossed 2  silver  is  undimmed  by  handling,  and  there  are  no 
dregs  to  send  forth  unpleasant  suggestions  :  the  only  pre- 
vailing scent  is  of  the  lavender  and  rose-leaves  that  fill  the 
vases  of  Derbyshire  spar.3  All  is  purity  and  order  in  this 

1  Flecked  or  spotted  ;  this  form  is  used  by  Chaucer. 

2  Ornamented  with  raised  work. 

3  A  bright  crystalline  mineral  found  in  great  quantities  in  Derby- 
shire. 


SILAS  MARNER  187 

once  dreary  room,  for,  fifteen  years  ago,  it  was  entered  by 
a  new  presiding  spirit. 

"  Now,  father, "  said  Nancy,  "  is  there  any  call  for  you 
to  go  home  to  tea  ?  Mayn't  you  just  as  well  stay  with  us  ? 
— such  a  beautiful  evening  as  it's  likely  to  be." 

The  old  gentleman  had  been  talking  with  Godfrey  about 
the  increasing  poor-rate  1  and  the  ruinous  times,2  and  had 
not  heard  the  dialogue  between  his  daughters. 

"  My  dear,  you  must  ask  Priscilla,"  he  said,  in  the  once 
firm  voice,  now  become  rather  broken.  "  She  manages  me 
and  the  farm  too." 

"  And  reason  good  as  I  should  manage  yon,  father,"  said 
Priscilla,  "else  you'd  be  giving  yourself  your  death  with 
rheumatism.  And  as  for  the  farm,  if  anything  turns  out 
wrong,  as  it  can't  but  do  in  these  times,  there's  nothing 
kills  a  man  so  soon  as  having  nobody  to  find  fault  with  but 
himself.  It's  a  deal  the  best  way  o'  being  master,  to  let 
somebody  else  do  the  ordering,  and  keep  the  blaming  in 
your  own  hands.  It  'ud  save  many  a  man  a  stroke,  /  be- 
lieve." 

"Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  with  a  quiet 
laugh,  "  I  didn't  say  you  don't  manage  for  everybody's 
good." 

"  Then  manage  so  as  you  may  stay  tea,  Priscilla,"  said 
Nancy,  putting  her  hand  on  her  sister's  arm  affectionately. 
"  Come  now  ;  and  we'll  go  round  the  garden  while  father 
has  his  nap." 

"  My  dear  child,  he'll  have  a  beautiful  nap  in  the  gig, 
for  I  shall  drive.  And  as  for  staying  tea,  I  can't  hear  of  it ; 
for  there's  this  dairymaid,  now  she  knows  she's  to  be  mar- 
ried, turned  Michaelmas,3  she'd  as  lief  pour  the  new  milk 
into  the  pig-trough  as  into  the  pans.  That's  the  way  witli 

1  A  parish  tax  for  the  support  of  the  poor. 

4  Note  the  change  from  the  agricultural  prosperity  of  the  war  time 
described  in  the  first  chapters. 

3  "  Turned  Michaelmas,"  i.e.,  after  the  29th  of  September,  the  feast 
of  the  Archangel  Michael. 


188  SILAS  MARNER 

'em  all :  it's  as  if  they  thought  the  world  'ud  be  new-made 
because  they're  to  be  married.  So  come  and  let  me  put  my 
bonnet  on,  and  there'll  be  time  for  us  to  walk  round  the 
garden  while  the  horse  is  being  put  in." 

AVhen  the  sisters  were  treading  the  neatly-swept  garden- 
walks,  between  the  bright  turf  that  contrasted  pleasantly 
with  the  dark  cones  and  arches  and  wall-like  hedges  of 
yew,  Priscilla  said — 

' '  I'm  as  glad  as  anything  at  your  husband's  making  that 
exchange  o'  land  with  cousin  Osgood,  and  beginning  the 
dairying.  It's  a  thousand  pities  you  didn't  do  it  before  ; 
for  it'll  give  you  something  to  fill  your  mind.  There's 
nothing  like  a  dairy  if  folks  want  a  bit  o'  worrit  to  make 
the  days  pass.  For  as  for  rubbing  furniture,  when  you 
can  once  see  your  face  in  a  table  there's  nothing  else  to  look 
for  ;  but  there's  always  something  fresh  with  the  dairy  ;  for 
even  in  the  depths  o'  winter  there's  some  pleasure  in  con- 
quering the  butter,  and  making  it  come  whether  or  no. 
My  dear,"  added  Priscilla,  pressing  her  sister's  hand  affec- 
tionately as  they  walked  side  by  side,  "  you'll  never  be  low 
when  you've  got  a  dairy." 

"Ah,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  returning  the  pressure 
with  a  grateful  glance  of  her  clear  eyes,  "  but  it  won't 
make  up  to  Godfrey  :  a  dairy's  not  so  much  to  a  man. 
And  it's  only  what  he  cares  for  that  ever  makes  me  low. 
Fm  contented  with  the  blessings  we  have,  if  he  could  be 
contented." 

"  It  drives  me  past  patience,"  said  Priscilla,  impetuously, 
"  that  way  o'  the  men — always  wanting  and  wanting,  and 
never  easy  with  what  they've  got :  they  can't  sit  comforta- 
ble in  their  chairs  when  they've  neither  ache  nor  pain,  but 
either  they  must  stick  a  pipe  in  their  mouths,  to  make  'em 
better  than  well,  or  else  they  must  be  swallowing  some- 
thing strong,  though  they're  forced  to  make  haste  before 
the  next  meal  comes  in.  But  joyful  be  it  spoken,  our 
father  was  never  that  sort  o'  man.  And  if  it  had  pleased 
God  to  make  you  ugly,  like  me,  so  as  the  men  wouldn't  ha' 


SILAS  MARNER  180 

rim  after  yon,  we  might  have  kept  to  our  own  family,  and 
had  nothing  to  do  with  folks  as  have  got  uneasy  blood  in 
their  veins." 

"  0  don't  say  so,  Priscilla,"  said  Nancy,  repenting  that 
she  had  called  forth  this  outburst ;  "  nobody  has  any  oc- 
casion to  find  fault  with  Godfrey.  It's  natural  he  should 
be  disappointed  at  not  having  any  children  :  every  man 
likes  to  have  somebody  to  work  for  and  lay  by  for,  and  he 
always  counted  so  on  making  a  fuss  with  'em  when  they 
were  little.  There's  many  another  man  'ud  hanker  more 
than  he  does.  He's  the  best  of  husbands." 

"  0,  I  know,"  said  Priscilla,  smiling  sarcastically,  "  I 
know  the  way  o'  wives  ;  they  set  one  on  to  abuse  their  hus- 
bands, and  then  they  turn  round  on  one  and  praise  'em  as 
if  they  wanted  to  sell  'em.  But  father  '11  be  waiting  for 
me  ;  we  must  turn  now." 

The  large  gig  with  the  steady  old  grey  was  at  the  front 
door,  and  Mr.  Lammeter  was  already  on  the  stone  steps, 
passing  the  time  in  recalling  to  Godfrey  what  very  fine 
points  Speckle  had  when  his  master  used  to  ride  him. 

"  I  always  would  have  a  good  horse,  you  know,"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  not  liking  that  spirited  time  to  be  quite 
effaced  from  the  memory  of  his  juniors. 

' '  Mind  you  bring  Nancy  to  the  Warrens  before  the 
week's  out,  Mr.  Cass,"  was  Priscilla's  parting  injunction, 
as  she  took  the  reins,  and  shook  them  gently,  by  way  of 
friendly  incitement  to  Speckle. 

"  I  shall  just  take  a  turn  to  the  fields  against  the  Stone- 
pits,  Nancy,  and  look  at  the  draining,"  said  Godfrey. 

"You'll  be  in  again  by  tea-time,  dear  ?" 

"  0  yes,  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour." 

It  was  Godfrey's  custom  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  to  do  a 
little  contemplative  farming  in  a  leisurely  walk.  Nancy 
seldom  accompanied  him  ;  for  the  women  of  her  genera- 
tion— unless,  like  Priscilla,  they  took  to  outdoor  manage- 
ment— were  not  given  to  much  walking  beyond  their  own 
house  and  garden,  finding  sufficient  exercise  in  domestic 


190  SILAS  MARNER 

duties.  So,  when  Priscilla  was  not  with  her,  she  usually 
sat  with  Mant's  Bible 1  before  her,  and  after  following  the 
text  with  her  eyes  for  a  little  while,  she  would  gradually 
permit  them  to  wander  as  her  thoughts  had  already  in- 
sisted on  wandering. 

But  Nancy's  Sunday  thoughts  were  rarely  quite  out  of 
keeping  with  the  devout  and  reverential  intention  implied 
by  the  book  spread  open  before  her.  She  was  not  theo- 
logically instructed  enough  to  discern  very  clearly  the  re- 
lation between  the  sacred  documents  of  the  past  which  she 
opened  without  method,  and  her  own  obscure,  simple  life ; 
but  the  spirit  of  rectitude,  and  the  sense  of  responsibility 
for  the  effect  of  her  conduct  on  others,  which  were  strong 
elements  in  Nancy's  character,  had  made  it  a  habit  with 
her  to  scrutinise  her  past  feelings  and  actions  with  self- 
questioning  solicitude.  Her  mind  not  being  courted  by  a 
great  variety  of  subjects,  she  filled  the  vacant  moments  by 
living  inwardly,  again  and  again,  through  all  her  remem- 
bered experience,  especially  through  the  fifteen  years  of 
her  married  time,  in  which  her  life  and  its  significance  had 
been  doubled.  She  recalled  the  small  details,  the  words, 
tones,  and  looks,  in  the  critical  scenes  which  had  opened  a 
new  epoch  for  her  by  giving  her  a  deeper  insight  into  the 
relations  and  trials  of  life,  or  which  had  called  on  her  for 
some  little  effort  of  forbearance,  or  of  painful  adherence 
to  an  imagined  or  real  duty — asking  herself  continually 
whether  she  had  been  in  any  respect  blamable.  This  ex- 
cessive rumination  and  self-questioning  is  perhaps  a  mor- 
bid habit  inevitable  to  a  mind  of  much  moral  sensibility 
when  shut  out  from  its  due  share  of  outward  activity  and 
of  practical  claims  on  its  affections — inevitable  to  a  noble- 
hearted,  childless  woman,  when  her  lot  is  narrow.  "  I 
can  do  so  little — have  I  done  it  all  well  ?  "  is  the  per- 
petually recurring  thought ;  and  there  are  no  voices 
calling  her  away  from  that  soliloquy,  no  peremptory 

1  An  edition  of  the  Bible  with  notes  prepared  by  D'Oyly  and  Bish- 
op Mant  (1817). 


SILAS  MARNER  191 

demands  to  divert  energy  from  vain  regret  or  superfluous 
scruple. 

There  was  one  main  thread  of  painful  experience  in 
Nancy's  married  life,  and  on  it  hung  certain  deeply-felt 
scenes,  which  were  the  oftenest  revived  in  retrospect. 
The  short  dialogue  with  Priscilla  in  the  garden  had  deter- 
mined the  current  of  retrospect  in  that  frequent  direction 
this  particular  Sunday  afternoon.  The  first  wandering  of 
her  thought  from  the  text,  which  she  still  attempted  duti- 
fully to  follow  with  her  eyes  and  silent  lips,  was  into  an 
imaginary  enlargement  of  the  defence  she  had  set  up  for 
her  husband  against  Priscilla's  implied  blame.  The  vin- 
dication of  the  loved  object  is  the  best  balm  affection  can 
find  for  its  wounds  : — ' '  A  man  must  have  so  much  on  his 
mind,"  is  the  belief  by  which  a  wife  often  supports  a  cheer- 
ful face  under  rough  answers  and  unfeeling  words.  And 
Nancy's  deepest  wounds  had  all  come  from  the  perception 
that  the  absence  of  children  from  their  hearth  was  dwelt 
on  in  her  husband's  mind  as  a  privation  to  which  he  could 
not  reconcile  himself. 

Yet  sweet  Nancy  might  have  been  expected  to  feel  still 
more  keenly  the  denial  of  a  blessing  to  which  she  had 
looked  forward  with  all  the  varied  expectations  and  prep- 
arations, solemn  and  prettily  trivial,  which  fill  the  mind 
of  a  loving  woman  when  she  expects  to  become  a  mother. 
Was  there  not  a  drawer  filled  with  the  neat  work  of  her 
hands,  all  unworn  and  untouched,  just  as  she  had  ar- 
ranged it  there  fourteen  years  ago — just,  but  for  one  little 
dress,  which  had  been  made  the  burial-dress  ?  But  under 
this  immediate  personal  trial  Nancy  was  so  firmly  unmur- 
muring, that  years  ago  she  had  suddenly  renounced  the 
habit  of  visiting  this  drawer,  lest  she  should  in  this  way  be 
cherishing  a  longing  for  what  was  not  given. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  very  severity  towards  any  indulgence 
of  what  she  held  to  be  sinful  regret  in  herself,  that  made 
her  shrink  from  applying  her  own  standard  to  her  hus- 
band. "  It  is  very  different — it  is  much  worse  for  a  man 


192  SILAS  MARNER 

to  be  disappointed  in  that  way  :  a  woman  can  always  be 
satisfied  with  devoting  herself  to  her  husband,  but  a  man 
wants  something  that  will  make  him  look  forward  more — 
and  sitting  by  the  fire  is  so  much  duller  to  him  than  to  a 
woman."  And  always,  when  Nancy  reached  this  point  in 
her  meditations — trying,  with  predetermined  sympathy,  to 
see  everything  as  Godfrey  saw  it — there  came  a  renewal  of 
self-questioning.  Had  she  done  everything  in  her  power 
to  lighten  Godfrey's  privation  ?  Had  she  really  been  right 
in  the  resistance  which  had  cost  her  so  much  pain  six 
years  ago,  and  again  four  years  ago — the  resistance  to  her 
husband's  wish  that  they  should  adopt  a  child  ?  Adop- 
tion was  more  remote  from  the  ideas  and  habits  of  that 
time  than  of  our  own  ;  still  Nancy  had  her  opinion  on  it. 
It  was  as  necessary  to  her  mind  to  have  an  opinion  on  all 
topics,  not  exclusively  masculine,  that  had  come  under  her 
notice,  as  for  her  to  have  a  precisely  marked  place  for 
every  article  of  her  personal  property  :  and  her  opinions 
were  always  principles  to  be  unwaveringly  acted  on.  They 
were  firm,  not  because  of  their  basis,  but  because  she  held 
them  with  a  tenacity  inseparable  from  her  mental  action. 
On  all  the  duties  and  proprieties  of  life,  from  filial  behav- 
iour to  the  arrangements  of  the  evening  toilet,  pretty 
Nancy  Lammeter,  by  the  time  she  was  three-and-twenty, 
had  her  unalterable  little  code,  and  had  formed  every  one 
of  her  habits  in  strict  accordance  with  that  code.  She  car- 
ried these  decided  judgments  within  her  in  the  most  un- 
obtrusive way  :  they  rooted  themselves  in  her  mind,  and 
grew  there  as  quietly  as  grass.  Years  ago,  we  know,  she 
insisted  on  dressing  like  Priscilla,  because  "  it  was  right 
for  sisters  to  dress  alike,"  and  because  "  she  would  do  what 
was  right  if  she  wore  a  gown  dyed  with  cheese-colouring." 
That  was  a  trivial  but  typical  instance  of  the  mode  in  which 
Nancy's  life  was  regulated. 

It  was  one  of  those  rigid  principles,  and  no  petty  egois- 
tic feeling,  which  had  been  the  ground  of  Nancy's  difficult 
resistance  to  her  husband's  wish.  To  adopt  a  child,  be' 


•       SILAS  MARNER  193 

cause  children  of  your  own  had  been  denied  yon,  was  to  try 
and  choose  your  lot  in  spite  of  Providence  :  the  adopted 
child,  she  was  convinced,  would  never  turn  out  well,  and 
would  be  a  curse  to  those  who  had  wilfully  and  rebelliously 
sought  what  it  was  clear  that,  for  some  high  reason,  they 
were  better  without.  When  you  saw  a  thing  was  not  meant 
to  be,  said  Nancy,  it  was  a  bounden  duty  to  leave  off  so 
much  as  wishing  for  it.  And  so  far,  perhaps,  the  wisest 
of  men  could  scarcely  make  more  than  a  verbal  improve- 
ment in  her  principle.  But  the  conditions  under  which 
she  held  it  apparent  that  a  thing  was  not  meant  to  be,  de- 
pended on  a  more  peculiar  mode  of  thinking.  She  would 
have  given  up  making  a  purchase  at  a  particular  place  if,  on 
three  successive  times,  rain,  or  some  other  cause  of  Heav- 
en's sending,  had  formed  an  obstacle  ;  and  she  would 
have  anticipated  a  broken  limb  or  other  heavy  misfortune 
to  any  one  who  persisted  in  spite  of  such  indications. 

"  But  why  should  you  think  the  child  would  turn  out 
ill?"  said  Godfrey,  in  his  remonstrances.  "  She  has  thriven 
as  well  as  child  can  do  with  the  weaver  ;  and  lie  adopted 
her.  There  isn't  such  a  pretty  little  girl  anywhere  else  in 
the  parish,  or  one  fitter  for  the  station  we  could  give  her. 
Where  can  be  the  likelihood  of  her  being  a  curse  to  any- 
body ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Godfrey/'  said  Nancy,  who  was  sitting 
with  her  hands  tightly  clasped  together,  and  with  yearn- 
ing, regretful  affection  in  her  eyes.  "  The  child  may  not 
turn  out  ill  with  the  weaver.  But,  then,  he  didn't  go  to 
seek  her,  as  we  should  be  doing.  It  will  be  wrong  :  I  feel 
sure  it  will.  Don't  you  remember  what  that  lady  we  met 
at  the  Royston  Baths  told  us  about  the  child  her  sister 
adopted  ?  That  was  the  only  adopting  I  ever  heard  of  : 
and  the  child  was  transported  when  it  was  twenty-three. 
Dear  Godfrey,  don't  ask  me  to  do  what  I  know  is  wrong  : 
I  should  never  be  happy  again.  I  know  it's  very  hard 
for  you — it's  easier  for  me — but  it's  the  will  of  Pron« 
deuce." 

13 


194  SILAS  MARNER 

It  might  seem  singular  that  Nancy — with  her  religious 
theory  pieced  together  out  of  narrow  social  traditions, 
fragments  of  church  doctrine  imperfectly  understood,  and 
girlish  reasonings  on  her  small  experience — should  have 
arrived  by  herself  at  a  way  of  thinking  so  nearly  akin  to 
that  of  many  devout  people  whose  beliefs  are  held  in  the 
shape  of  a  system  quite  remote  from  her  knowledge  :  sin- 
gular, if  we  did  not  know  that  human  beliefs,  like  all  other 
natural  growths,  elude  the  barriers  of  system. 

Godfrey  had  from  the  first  specified  Eppie,  then  about 
twelve  years  old,  as  a  child  suitable  for  them  to  adopt.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  Silas  would  rather  part 
with  his  life  than  with  Eppie.  Surely  the  weaver  would 
wish  the  best  to  the  child  he  had  taken  so  much  trouble 
with,  and  would  be  glad  that  such  good  fortune  should 
happen  to  her  :  she  would  always  be  very  grateful  to  him, 
and  he  would  be  well  provided  for  to  the  end  of  his  life — 
provided  for  as  the  excellent  part  he  had  done  by  the  child 
deserved.  Was  it  not  an  appropriate  thing  for  people  in  a 
higher  station  to  take  a  charge  off  the  hands  of  a  man  in 
a  lower  ?  It  seemed  an  eminently  appropriate  thing  to 
Godfrey,  for  reasons  that  were  known  only  to  himself ; 
and  by  a  common  fallacy,  he  imagined  the  measure  would 
be  easy  because  he  had  private  motives  for  desiring  it. 
This  was  rather  a  coarse  mode  of  estimating  Silas's  relation 
to  Eppie ;  but  we  must  remember  that  many  of  the  impres- 
sions which  Godfrey  was  likely  to  gather  concerning  the 
labouring  people  around  him  would  favour  the  idea  that 
deep  affections  can  hardly  go  along  with  callous  palms  and 
scant  means  ;  and  he  had  not  had  the  opportunity,  even  if 
he  had  had  the  power,  of  entering  intimately  into  all  that 
was  exceptional  in  the  weaver's  experience.  It  was  only 
the  want  of  adequate  knowledge  that  could  have  made  it 
possible  for  Godfrey  deliberately  to  entertain  an  unfeeling 
project :  his  natural  kindness  had  outlived  that  blighting 
time  of  cruel  wishes,  and  Nancy's  praise  of  him  as  a  hus- 
band was  not  founded  entirely  on  a  wilful  illusion. 


SILAS  MARNER  195 

"  I  was  right,"  she  said  to  herself,  when  she  had  recalled 
all  their  scenes  of  discussion — "  I  feel  I  was  right  to  say 
him  nay,  though  it  hurt  me  more  than  anything ;  but  how 
good  Godfrey  has  been  about  it !  Many  men  would  have 
been  very  angry  with  me  for  standing  out  against  their 
wishes ;  and  they  might  have  thrown  out  that  they'd  had 
ill-luck  in  marrying  me  ;  but  Godfrey  has  never  been  the 
man  to  say  me  an  unkind  word.  It's  only  what  he  can't 
hide  :  everything  seems  so  blank  to  him,  I  know  ;  and  the 
land — what  a  difference  it  'ud  make  to  him,  when  he  goes 
to  see  after  things,  if  he'd  children  growing  up  that  he  was 
doing  it  all  for  !  But  I  won't  murmur ;  and  perhaps  if 
he'd  married  a  woman  who'd  have  had  children,  she'd  have 
vexed  him  in  other  ways." 

This  possibility  was  Nancy's  chief  comfort ;  and  to  give 
it  greater  strength,  she  laboured  to  make  it  impossible  that 
any  other  wife  should  have  had  more  perfect  tender- 
ness. She  had  been  forced  to  vex  him  by  that  one  denial. 
Godfrey  was  not  insensible  to  her  loving  effort,  and  did 
Nancy  no  injustice  as  to  the  motives  of  her  obstinacy.  It 
was  impossible  to  have  lived  with  her  fifteen  years  and  not 
be  aware  that  an  unselfish  clinging  to  the  right,  and  a  sin- 
cerity clear  as  the  flower-born  dew,  were  her  main  charac- 
teristics ;  indeed,  Godfrey  felt  this  so  strongly,  that  his 
own  more  wavering  nature,  too  averse  to  facing  difficulty 
to  be  unvaryingly  simple  and  truthful,  was  kept  in  a  cer- 
tain awe  of  this  gentle  wife  who  watched  his  looks  with  a 
yearning  to  obey  them.  It  seemed  to  him  impossible  that  ho 
should  ever  confess  to  her  the  truth  about  Eppie  :  she  would 
never  recover  from  the  repulsion  the  story  of  his  earlier 
marriage  would  create,  told  to  her  now,  after  that  long  con- 
cealment. And  the  child,  too,  he  thought,  must  become 
an  object  of  repulsion  :  the  very  sight  of  her  would  be 
painful.  The  shock  to  Nancy's  mingled  pride  and  igno- 
rance of  the  world's  evil  might  even  be  too  much  for  her 
delicate  frame.  Since  he  had  married  her  with  that  secret 
on  his  heart,  he  must  keep  it  there  to  the  last.  Whatever 


196  SILAS  MARNER 

else  he  did,  he  could  not  make  an  irreparable  breach  between 
himself  and  this  long-loved  wife. 

Meanwhile,  why  could  he  not  make  up  his  mind  to  the 
absence  of  children  from  a  hearth  brightened  by  such  a 
wife  ?  Why  did  his  mind  fly  uneasily  to  that  void,  as  if  it 
were  the  sole  reason  why  life  was  not  thoroughly  joyous  to 
him  ?  I  suppose  it  is  the  way  with  all  men  and  women  who 
reach  middle  age  without  the  clear  perception  that  life  never 
can  be  thoroughly  joyous  :  under  the  vague  dulness  of  the 
grey  hours,  dissatisfaction  seeks  a  definite  object,  and  finds  it 
in  the  privation  of  an  untried  good.  Dissatisfaction  seated 
musingly  on  a  childless  hearth,  thinks  with  envy  of  the  fa- 
ther whose  return  is  greeted  by  young  voices — seated  at  the 
meal  where  the  little  heads  rise  one  above  another  like  nurs- 
ery plants,  it  sees  a  black  care  hovering  behind  every  one 
of  them,  and  thinks  the  impulses  by  which  men  abandon 
freedom,  and  seek  for  ties,  are  surely  nothing  but  a  brief 
madness.  In  Godfrey's  case  there  were  further  reasons 
why  his  thoughts  should  be  continually  solicited  by  this 
one  point  in  his  lot :  his  conscience,  never  thoroughly  easy 
about  Eppie,  now  gave  his  childless  home  the  aspect  of  a 
retribution  ;  and  as  the  time  passed  on,  under  Nancy's  re- 
fusal to  adopt  her,  any  retrieval  of  his  error  became  more 
and  more  difficult. 

On  this  Sunday  afternoon  it  was  already  four  years 
since  there  had  been  any  allusion  to  the  subject  between 
them,  and  Nancy  supposed  that  it  was  for  ever  buried. 

"  I  wonder  if  he'll  mind  it  less  or  more  as  he  gets  older," 
she  thought ;  "  I'm  afraid  more.  Aged  people  feel  the 
miss  of  children  :  what  would  father  do  without  Priscilla  ? 
And  if  I  die,  Godfrey  will  be  very  lonely — not  holding  to- 
gether with  his  brothers  much.  But  I  won't  be  over- 
anxious, and  trying  to  make  things  out  beforehand :  I 
must  do  my  best  for  the  present. " 

"With  that  last  thought  Nancy  roused  herself  from  her 
reverie,  and  turned  her  eyes  again  towards  the  forsaken 
page.  It  had  been  forsaken  longer  than  she  imagined,  for 


SILAS  MARNER  197 

she  was  presently  surprised  by  the  appearance  of  the  ser- 
vant with  the  tea-things.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  little  before 
the  usual  time  for  tea  ;  but  Jane  had  her  reasons. 

"  Is  your  master  come  into  the  yard,  Jane  ?" 

"  No  Jm,  he  isn't/'  said  Jane,  with  a  slight  emphasis,  of 
which,  however,  her  mistress  took  no  notice. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you've  seen  'em,  'm,"  continued 
Jane,  after  a  pause,  "  but  there's  folks  making  haste  all 
one  way,  afore  the  front  window.  I  doubt  something's 
happened.  There's  niver  a  man  to  be  seen  i'  the  yard, 
else  I'd  send  and  see.  I've  been  up  into  the  top  attic,  but 
there's  no  seeing  anything  for  trees.  I  hope  nobody's  hurt, 
that's  all." 

"  0,  no,  I  daresay  there's  nothing  much  the  matter," 
said  Nancy.  "  It's  perhaps  Mr.  SnelFs  bull  got  out  again, 
as  he  did  before." 

"  I  wish  he  mayn't  gore  anybody  then,  that's  all,"  said 
Jane,  not  altogether  despising  a  hypothesis  which  covered 
a  few  imaginary  calamities. 

"  That  girl  is  always  terrifying  me,"  thought  Nancy  ; 
"  I  Avish  Godfrey  would  come  in." 

She  went  to  the  front  window  and  looked  as  far  as  she 
could  see  along  the  road,  with  an  uneasiness  which  she 
felt  to  be  childish,  for  there  were  now  no  such  signs  of 
excitement  as  Jane  had  spoken  of,  and  Godfrey  would  not 
be  likely  to  return  by  the  village  road,  but  by  the  fields. 
She  continued  to  stand,  however,  looking  at  the  placid 
churchyard  with  the  long  shadows  of  the  gravestones 
across  the  bright  green  hillocks,  and  at  the  glowing 
autumn  colours  of  the  Rectory  trees  beyond.  Before  such 
calm  external  beauty  the  presence  of  a  vague  fear  is  moro 
distinctly  felt — like  a  raven  flapping  its  slow  wing  across 
the  sunny  air.  Nancy  wished  more  and  more  that  God- 
frey would  come  in. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SOME  one  opened  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and  Nancy  felt  that  it  was  her  husband.  She  turned  from 
the  window  with  gladness  in  her  eyes,  for  the  wife's  chief 
dread  was  stilled. 

"  Dear,  I'm  so  thankful  you're  come,"  she  said,  going 
towards  him.  "  I  began  to  get  .  .  ." 

She  paused  abruptly,  for  Godfrey  was  laying  down  his 
hat  with  trembling  hands,  and  turned  towards  her  with  a 
pale  face  and  a  strange  unanswering  glance,  as  if  he  saw 
her  indeed,  but  saw  her  as  part  of  a  scene  invisible  to  her- 
self. She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  not  daring  to  speak 
again ;  but  he  left  the  touch  unnoticed,  and  threw  himself 
into  his  chair. 

Jane  was  already  at  the  door  with  the  hissing  urn. 
"Tell  her  to  keep  away,  will  you? "said  Godfrey;  and 
when  the  door  was  closed  again  he  exerted  himself  to  speak 
more  distinctly. 

"  Sit  down,  Nancy — there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  chair 
opposite  him.  "  I  came  back  as  soon  as  I  could,  to  hinder 
anybody's  telling  you  but  me.  I've  had  a  great  shock — but 
I  care  most  about  the  shock  it'll  be  to  you." 

"  It  isn't  father  and  Priscilla  ?  "  said  Nancy,  with  quiv- 
ering lips,  clasping  her  hands  together  tightly  on  her  lap. 

' '  No,  it's  nobody  living,"  said  Godfrey,  unequal  to  the 
considerate  skill  with  which  he  would  have  wished  to  make 
his  revelation.  "  It's  Dunstan — my  brother  Dunstan,  that 
we  lost  sight  of  sixteen  years  ago.  We've  found  him — 
found  his  body — his  skeleton." 

The  deep  dread  Godfrey's  look  had  created  in  Nancy 
made  her  feel  these  words  a  relief.  She  sat  in  compara- 


SILAS  MARNER  199 

tive  calmness  to  hear  what  else  he  had  to  tell.  He  went 
on: 

"  The  Stone-pit  has  gone  dry  suddenly — from  the  drain- 
ing, I  suppose ;  and  there  he  lies — has  lain  for  sixteen 
years,  wedged  between  two  great  stones.  There's  his 
watch  and  seals,1  and  there's  my  gold-handled  hunting- 
whip,  with  my  name  on  :  he  took  it  away,  without  my 
knowing,  the  day  he  went  hunting  on  Wildfire,  the  last 
time  he  was  seen." 

Godfrey  paused  :  it  was  not  so  easy  to  say  what  came  next. 
"Do  you  think  he  drowned  himself  ?"  said  Nancy  almost 
wondering  that  her  husband  should  be  so  deeply  shaken  by 
what  had  happened  all  those  years  ago  to  an  unloved 
brother,  of  whom  worse  things  had  been  augured.2 

"No,  he  fell  in,"  said  Godfrey,  in  a  low  but  distinct 
voice,  as  if  he  felt  some  deep  meaning  in  the  fact.  Pres- 
ently he  added  :  "  Dunstan  was  the  man  that  robbed  Silas 
Marner." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Nancy's  face  and  neck  at  this  sur- 
prise and  shame,  for  she  had  been  bred  up  to  regard  even  a 
distant  kinship  with  crime  as  a  dishonour. 

"0  Godfrey!"  she  said,  with  compassion  in  her  tone, 
for  she  had  immediately  reflected  that  the  dishonour  must 
be  felt  still  more  keenly  by  her  husband. 

"  There  was  the  money  in  the  pit,"  he  continued — "  all 
the  weaver's  money.  Everything's  been  gathered  up,  and 
they're  taking  the  skeleton  to  the  Rainbow.  But  I  came 
back  to  tell  you  :  there  was  no  hindering  it ;  you  must 
know." 

He  was  silent,  looking  on  the  ground  for  two  long  min- 
utes. Nancy  would  have  said  some  words  of  comfort 
under  this  disgrace,  but  she  refrained,  from  an  instinctive 
sense  that  there  was  something  behind — that  Godfrey  had 

1  Engraved  stone  or  metal  stamps  frequently  worn  as  rings  or  at- 
tached to  the  watch-chain  ;  seals  were  necessary  before  the  accom- 
plishment of  writing  became  general,  and  are  still  used. 

*  What  is  the  derivation  of  this  word  ? 


200  SILAS  WARNER 

something  else  to  tell  her.  Presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  to 
tier  face,  and  kept  them  fixed  on  her,  as  he  said — 

"  Everything  comes  to  light,  Nancy,  sooner  or  later. 
When  God  Almighty  wills  it,  our  secrets  are  found  out. 
I've  lived  with  a  secret  on  my  mind,  but  I'll  keep  it  from 
you  no  longer.  I  wouldn't  have  you  know  it  by  somebody 
else,  and  not  by  me — I  wouldn't  have  you  find  it  out  after 
I'm  dead.  I'll  tell  you  now.  It's  been  '  I  will '  and  '  I 
won't'  Avith  me  all  my  life — I'll  make  sure  of  myself  now." 

Nancy's  utmost  dread  had  returned.  The  eyes  of  the 
husband  and  wife  met  with  awe  in  them,  as  at  a  crisis 
which  suspended  affection. 

"  Nancy,"  said  Godfrey,  slowly,  "  when  I  married  you,  I 
hid  something  from  you — something  I  ought  to  have  told 
you.  That  woman  Marner  found  dead  in  the  snow — Ep- 
pie's  mother — that  wretched  woman — was  my  wife  :  Eppie 
is  my  child." 

He  paused,  dreading  the  effect  of  his  confession.  But 
Nancy  sat  quite  still,  only  that  her  eyes  dropped  and 
ceased  to  met  his.  She  was  pale  and  quiet  as  a  meditative 
statue,  clasping  her  hands  on  her  lap. 

"  You'll  never  think  the  same  of  me  again,"  said  God- 
frey, after  a  little  while,  Avith  some  tremor  in  his  voice. 

She  was  silent. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  left  the  child  unowned  :  I  oughtn't 
to  have  kept  it  from  you.  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  give  you 
up,  Nancy.  I  was  led  away  into  marrying  her — I  suffered 
for  it." 

Still  Nancy  was  silent,  looking  down  ;  and  he  almost  ex- 
pected that  she  would  presently  get  up  and  say  she  would 
go  to  her  father's.  How  could  she  have  any  mercy  for 
faults  that  must  seem  so  black  to  her,  Avith  her  simple  se- 
vere notions  ? 

But  at  last  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his  again  and  spoke. 
There  was  no  indignation  in  her  voice — only  deep  regret. 

"  Godfrey,  if  you  had  but  told  me  this  six  years  ago,  we 
could  have  done  some  of  our  duty  by  the  child.  Do  you 


SILAS  MARNER  201 

think  I'd  have  refused  to  take  her  in,  if  I'd  known  she  was 
yours  ?" 

At  that  moment  Godfrey  felt  all  the  bitterness  of  an 
error  that  was  not  simply  futile,  but  had  defeated  its  own 
end.  He  had  not  measured  this  wife  with  whom  he  had 
lived  so  long.  But  she  spoke  again,  with  more  agitation. 

"  And— 0,  Godfrey — if  we'd  had  her  from  the  first,  if 
you'd  taken  to  her  as  you  ought,  she'd  have  loved  me  for 
her  mother — and  you'd  have  been  happier  with  me  :  I 
could  better  have  bore  my  little  baby  dying,  and  our  life 
might  have  been  more  like  what  we  used  to  think  it  'ud 
be." 

The  tears  fell,  and  Nancy  ceased  to  speak. 

"  But  you  wouldn't  have  married  me  then,  Nancy,  if  I'd 
told  you/'  said  Godfrey,  urged,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  self- 
reproach,  to  prove  to  himself  that  his  conduct  had  not  been 
utter  folly.  "You  may  think  you  would  now,  but  you 
wouldn't  then.  With  your  pride  and  your  father's,  you'd 
have  hated  having  anything  to  do  with  me  after  the  talk 
there'd  have  been." 

' '  I  can't  say  what  I  should  have  done  about  that,  God- 
frey. I  should  never  have  married  anybody  else.  But  I 
wasn't  worth  doing  wrong  for — nothing  is  in  this  world. 
Nothing  is  so  good  as  it  seems  beforehand — not  even  our 
marrying  wasn't,  you  see."  There  was  a  faint  sad  smile  on 
Nancy's  face  as  she  said  the  last  words. 

"  I'm  a  worse  man  than  you  thought  I  was,  Nancy," 
said  Godfrey,  rather  tremulously.  "  Can  you  forgive  me 
ever?" 

' '  The  wrong  to  me  is  but  little,  Godfrey  :  you've  made 
it  up  to  me — you've  been  good  to  me  for  fifteen  years.  It's 
another  you  did  the  wrong  to  ;  and  I  doubt  it  can  never  be 
all  made  up  for." 

' '  But  we  can  take  Eppie  now,"  said  Godfrey.  "  I  won't 
mind  the  world  knowing  at  last.  I'll  be  plain  and  open  for 
the  rest  o'  my  life." 

"  It'll  be  different  coming  to  us,  now  she's  grown  up," 


202  SILAS  MARNER 

said  Nancy,  shaking  her  head  sadly.  "  But  it's  your  duty 
to  acknowledge  her  and  provide  for  her ;  and  I'll  do  my 
part  by  her,  and  pray  to  God  Almighty  to  make  her  love 
me." 

"  Then  we'll,  go  together  to  Silas  Marner's  this  very  night, 
as  soon  as  everything's  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits." 

In  chapter  seventeen  the  novelist  adds  to  our  knowledge  of  Mrs. 
Cass's  character,  and  returns  to  the  analytic  method,  especially  on 
pages  194  and  196.  It  is  a  chapter  of  quiet  delay  before  an  impending 
crisis.  What  "Nemesis"  (see  Introduction,  p.  xxi)  already  appears? 

Chapter  eighteen  reveals  the  "  Nemesis."  The  strong  scene  between 
the  husband  and  wife  is  not  interrupted  by  description  or  moralizing ; 
the  dialogue  moves  rapidly.  Yet  the  reader  is  left  with  the  sense  of 
the  retribution  Godfrey  Cass  has  incurred  by  his  weakness. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

BETWEEN  eight  and  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  Eppie  and 
Silas  were  seated  alone  in  the  cottage.  After  the  great 
excitement  the  weaver  had  undergone  from  the  events  of 
the  afternoon,  he  had  felt  a  longing  for  this  quietude,  and 
had  even  begged  Mrs.  Winthrop  and  Aaron,  who  had  nat- 
urally lingered  behind  every  one  else,  to  leave  him  alone 
with  his  child.  The  excitement  had  not  passed  away  :  it 
had  only  reached  that  stage  when  the  keenness  of  the  sus- 
ceptibility makes  external  stimulus  intolerable — when  there 
is  no  sense  of  weariness,  but  rather  an  intensity  of  inward 
life,  under  which  sleep  is  an  impossibility.  Any  one  who 
has  watched  such  moments  in  other  men  remembers  the 
brightness  of  the  eyes  and  the  strange  definiteness  that 
comes  over  coarse  features  from  that  transient  influence. 
It  is  as  if  a  new  fineness  of  ear  for  all  spiritual  voices  had 
sent  wonder-working  vibrations  through  the  heavy  mortal 
frame — as  if  "beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound "  had 
passed  into  the  face  of  the  listener. 

Silas's  face  showed  that  sort  of  transfiguration,  as  he  sat 
in  his  arm-chair  and  looked  at  Eppie.  She  had  drawn  her 
own  chair  towards  his  knees,  and  leaned  forward,  holding 
both  his  hands,  while  she  looked  up  at  him.  On  the  table 
near  them,  lit  by  a  candle,  lay  the  recovered  gold — the  old 
long-loved  gold,  ranged  in  orderly  heaps,  as  Silas  used  to 
range  it  in  the  days  when  it  was  his  only  joy.  He  had 
been  telling  her  how  he  used  to  count  it  every  night,  and 
how  his  soul  was  utterly  desolate  till  she  was  sent  to  him. 

"  At  first,  I'd  a  sort  o'  feeling  come  across  me  now  and 
then,"  he  was  saying  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  as  if  you  might 
be  changed  into  the  gold  again  ;  for  sometimes,  turn  my 


204  SILAS  MARNER 

head  which  way  I  would,  I  seemed  to  see  the  gold  ;  and  I 
thought  I  should  be  glad  if  I  could  feel  it,  and  find  it  was 
come  back.  But  that  didn't  last  long.  After  a  bit,  I 
should  have  thought  it  was  a  curse  come  again,  if  it  had 
drove  you  from  me,  for  I'd  got  to  feel  the  need  o'  your 
looks  and  your  voice  and  the  touch  o'  your  little  fingers. 
You  didn't  know  then,  Eppie,  when  you  were  such  a  little  uii 
— you  didn't  know  what  your  old  father  Silas  felt  for  you." 

"  But  I  know  now,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  you,  they'd  have  taken  me  to  the  workhouse,1  and 
there'd  have  been  nobody  to  love  me." 

"Eh,  my  precious  child,  the  blessing  was  mine.  If  you 
hadn't  been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha'  gone  to  the  grave 
in  my  misery.  The  money  was  taken  away  from  me  in 
time  ;  and  you  see  it's  been  kept — kept  till  it  was  wanted 
for  you.  It's  wonderful — our  life  is  wonderful." 

Silas  sat  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  the  money. 
"  It  takes  no  hold  of  me  now,"  he  said,  ponderingly — 
"  the  money  doesn't.  I  wonder  if  it  ever  could  again — I 
doubt  it  might,  if  I  lost  you,  Eppie.  I  might  come  to 
think  I  was  forsaken  again,  and  lose  the  feeling  that  God 
was  good  to  me." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knocking  at  the  door ;  and 
Eppie  was  obliged  to  rise  without  answering  Silas.  Beau- 
tiful she  looked,  with  the  tenderness  of  gathering  tears  in 
her  eyes  and  a  slight  flush  on  her  cheeks,  as  she  stepped 
to  open  the  door.  The  flush  deepened  when  she  saw  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass.  She  made  her  little  rustic  curtsy, 
and  held  the  door  wide  for  them  to  enter. 

"  We're  disturbing  you  very  late,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Cass,  taking  Eppie's  hand,  and  looking  in  her  face  with  an 
expression  of  anxious  interest  and  admiration.  Nancy  her- 
self was  pale  and  tremulous. 

Eppie,  after  placing  chairs  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass,  went 
to  stand  against  Silas,  opposite  to  them. 

"  Well,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  trying  to  speak  with 
1  The  English  term  for  the  poor-house  or  poor-farm. 


SILAS  MARNER  205 

perfect  firmness,  "  it's  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  see  you 
with  your  money  again,  that  you've  been  deprived  of  so 
many  years.  It  was  one  of  my  family  did  you  the  wrong 
— the  more  grief  to  me — and  I  feel  bound  to  make  up  to 
you  for  it  in  every  way.  Whatever  I  can  do  for  you  will  be 
nothing  but  paying  a  debt,  even  if  I  looked  no  further 
than  the  robbery.  But  there  are  other  things  I'm  be- 
holden— shall  be  beholden  to  you  for,  Marner." 

Godfrey  checked  himself.  It  had  been  agreed  between 
him  and  his  wife  that  the  subject  of  his  fatherhood  should 
be  approached  very  carefully,  and  that,  if  possible,  the 
disclosure  should  be  reserved  for  the  future,  so  that  it 
might  be  made  to  Eppie  gradually.  Nancy  had  urged 
this,  because  she  felt  strongly  the  painful  light  in  which 
Eppie  must  inevitably  see  the  relation  between  her  father 
and  mother. 

Silas,  always  ill  at  ease  when  he  was  being  spoken  to 
by  "betters,"  such  as  Mr.  Cass — tall,  powerful,  florid 
men,  seen  chiefly  on  horseback — answered  with  some  con- 
straint— 

"  Sir,  I've  a  deal  to  thank  you  for  a'ready.  As  for  the 
robbery,  I  count  it  no  loss  to  me.  And  if  I  did,  you 
couldn't  help  it :  you  aren't  answerable  for  it." 

"  You  may  look  at  it  in  that  way,  Marner,  but  I  never 
can ;  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  act  according  to  my  own 
feeling  of  what's  just.  I  know  you're  easily  contented  : 
you've  been  a  hard-working  man  all  your  life." 

"Yes,  sir,  yes,"  said  Marner,  meditatively.  "I  should 
ha'  been  bad  off  without  my  work  :  it  was  what  I  held  by 
when  everything  else  was  gone  from  me." 

"Ah,"  said  Godfrey,  applying  Marner's  words  simply  to 
his  bodily  wants,  "  it  was  a  good  trade  for  you  in  this  coun- 
try, because  there's  been  a  great  deal  of  linen-weaving  to 
be  done.  But  you're  getting  rather  past  such  close  work, 
Marner :  it's  time  you  laid  by  and  had  some  rest.  You 
look  a  good  deal  pulled  down,  though  you're  not  an  old 
man,  are  you  ?  " 


206  SILAS  MARNER 

"Fifty-five,  as  near  as  I  can  say,  sir,"  said  Silas. 

"  0,  why,  you  may  live  thirty  years  longer  —  look 
at  old  Macey  !  And  that  money  on  the  table,  after  all,  is 
but  little.  It  won't  go  far  either  way — whether  it's  put 
out  to  interest,  or  you  were  to  live  on  it  as  long  as  it  would 
last :  it  wouldn't  go  far  if  you'd  nobody  to  keep  but  your- 
self, and  you've  had  two  to  keep  for  a  good  many  years 
now." 

"  Eh,  sir,"  said  Silas,  unaffected  by  anything  Godfrey 
was  saying,  "  I'm  in  no  fear  o'  want.  We  shall  do  very 
well — Eppie  and  me  'ull  do  well  enough.  There's  few 
working-folks  have  got  so  much  laid  by  as  that.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  gentlefolks,  but  I  look  upon  it  as  a  deal 
— almost  too  much.  And  as  for  us,  it's  little  we  want." 

"  Only  the  garden,  father,"  said  Eppie,  blushing  up  to 
the  ears  the  moment  after. 

"  You  love  a  garden,  do  you,  my  dear  ? "  said  Nancy, 
thinking  that  this  turn  in  the  point  of  view  might  help  her 
husband.  "We  should  agree  in  that:  I  give  a  deal  of 
time  to  the  garden." 

"  Ah,  there's  plenty  of  gardening  at  the  Eed  House," 
said  Godfrey,  surprised  at  the  difficulty  he  found  in  ap- 
proaching a  proposition  which  had  seemed  so  easy  to  him 
in  the  distance.  "You've  done  a  good  part  by  Eppie, 
Marner,  for  sixteen  years.  It  'ud  be  a  great  comfort  to  you 
to  see  her  well  provided  for,  wouldn't  it  ?  She  looks  bloom- 
ing and  healthy,  but  not  fit  for  any  hardships  :  she  doesn't 
look  like  a  strapping  girl  come  of  working  parents.  You'd 
like  to  see  her  taken  care  of  by  those  who  can  leave  her 
well  off,  and  make  a  lady  of  her  ;  she's  more  fit  for  it  than 
for  a  rough  life,  such  as  she  might  come  to  have  in  a  few 
years'  time." 

A  slight  flush  came  over  Marner's  face,  and  disappeared, 
like  a  passing  gleam.  Eppie  was  simply  wondering  Mr. 
Cass  should  talk  so  about  things  that  seemed  to  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  reality,  but  Silas  was  hurt  and  uneasy. 

"I  don't  take  your  meaning,  sir,"  he  answered,  not  hav- 


SILAS  MARNER  207 

ing  words  at  command  to  express  the  mingled  feelings  with 
which  he  had  heard  Mr.  Cass's  words. 

"  Well,  my  meaning  is  this,  Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  de- 
termined to  come  to  the  point.  "  Mrs.  Cass  and  I,  you 
know,  have  no  children — nobody  to  be  the  better  for  our 
good  home  and  everything  else  we  have — more  than  enough 
for  ourselves.  And  we  should  like  to  have  somebody  in 
the  place  of  a  daughter  to  us — we  should  like  to  have  Ep- 
pie,  and  treat  her  in  every  way  as  our  own  child.  It  'ud  be 
a  great  comfort  to  you  in  your  old  age,  I  hope,  to  see  her 
fortune  made  in  that  way,  after  you've  been  at  the  trouble 
of  bringing  her  up  so  well.  And  it's  right  you  should 
have  every  reward  for  that.  And  Eppie,  I'm  sure,  will  al- 
ways love  you  and  be  grateful  to  you  :  she'd  come  and  see 
you  very  often,  and  we  should  all  be  on  the  look-out  to  do 
everything  we  could  towards  making  you  comfortable." 

A  plain  man  like  Godfrey  Cass,  speaking  under  some 
embarrassment,  necessarily  blunders  on  words  that  are 
coarser  than  his  intentions,  and  that  are  likely  to  fall  grat- 
ingly on  susceptible  feelings.  While  he  had  been  speaking, 
Eppie  had  quietly  passed  her  arm  behind  Silas's  head,  and 
let  her  hand  rest  against  it  caressingly  :  she  felt  him  trem- 
bling violently.  He  was  silent  for  some  moments  when  Mr. 
Cass  had  ended — powerless  under  the  conflict  of  emotions, 
all  alike  painful.  Eppie's  heart  was  swelling  at  the  sense 
that  her  father  was  in  distress  ;  and  she  was  just  going  to 
lean  down  and  speak  to  him,  when  one  struggling  dread  at 
last  gained  the  mastery  over  every  other  in  Silas,  and  he 
said,  faintly — 

"  Eppie,  my  child,  speak.  I  won't  stand  in  your  way. 
Thank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cass." 

Eppie  took  her  hand  from  her  father's  head,  and  came 
forward  a  step.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  but  not  with 
shyness  this  time  :  the  sense  that  her  father  was  in  doubt 
and  suffering  banished  that  sort  of  self -consciousness.  She 
dropt  a  low  curtsy,  first  to  Mrs.  Cass  and  then  to  Mr. 
Cass,  and  said — 


208  SILAS  MARNER 

"  Thank  yon,  ma'am — thank  you,  sir.  Bnt  I  can't  leave 
my  father,  nor  own  anybody  nearer  than  him.  And  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  lady — thank  you  all  the  same  "  (here 
Eppie  dropped  another  curtsy).  "  I  couldn't  give  up  the 
folks  I've  been  used  to." 

Eppie's  lip  began  to  tremble  a  little  at  the  last  words. 
She  retreated  to  her  father's  chair  again,  and  held  him 
round  the  neck  :  while  Silas,  with  a  subdued  sob,  put  up 
his  hand  to  grasp  hers. 

The  tears  were  in  Nancy's  eyes,  but  her  sympathy  with 
Eppie  was,  naturally,  divided  with  distress  on  her  hus- 
band's account.  She  dared  not  speak,  wondering  what 
was  going  on  in  her  husband's  mind. 

Godfrey  felt  an  irritation  inevitable  to  almost  all  of  us 
when  we  encounter  an  unexpected  obstacle.  He  had  been 
full  of  his  own  penitence  and  resolution  to  retrieve  his 
error  as  far  as  the  time  was  left  to  him  ;  he  was  possessed 
with  all-important  feelings,  that  were  to  lead  to  a  prede- 
termined course  of  action  which  he  had  fixed  on  as  the 
right,  and  he  was  not  prepared  to  enter  with  lively  appre- 
ciation into  other  people's  feelings  counteracting  his  virtu- 
ous resolves.  The  agitation  with  which  he  spoke  again 
was  not  quite  unmixed  with  anger. 

"  But  I've  a  claim  on  you,  Eppie — the  strongest  of  all 
claims.  It's  my  duty,  Marner,  to  own  Eppie  as  my  child, 
and  provide  for  her.  She's  my  own  child  :  her  mother 
was  my  wife.  I've  a  natural  claim  on  her  that  must  stand 
before  every  other." 

Eppie  had  given  a  violent  start,  and  turned  quite  pale. 
Silas,  on  the  contrary,  who  had  been  relieved,  by  Eppie's 
answer,  from  the  dread  lest  his  mind  should  be  in  opposi- 
tion to  hers,  felt  the  spirit  of  resistance  in  him  set  free,  not 
without  a  touch  of  parental  fierceness.  "  Then,  sir,"  he  an- 
swered, with  an  accent  of  bitterness  that  had  been  silent  in 
him  since  the  memorable  day  when  his  youthful  hope  had 
perished — "  then,  sir,  why  didn't  you  say  so  sixteen  year 
ago,  and  claim  her  before  I'd  come  to  love  her,  i'stead  o' 


SILAS  MARNER  209 

coming  to  take  her  from  me  now,  when  you  might  as  well 
take  the  heart  out  o'  my  body  ?  God  gave  her  to  me  be- 
cause you  turned  your  back  upon  her,  and  He  looks  upon 
her  as  mine  :  you've  no  right  to  her  !  When  a  man  turns 
a  blessing  from  his  door,  it  falls  to  them  as  take  it  in." 

"  I  know  that,  Marner.  I  was  wrong.  I've  repented  of 
my  conduct  in  that  matter,"  said  Godfrey,  who  could  not 
help  feeling  the  edge  of  Silas's  words. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,"  said  Marner,  with  gathering 
excitement ;  "  but  repentance  doesn't  alter  what's  been 
going  on  for  sixteen  year.  Your  coming  now  and  saying 
'  I'm  her  father '  doesn't  alter  the  feelings  inside  us.  It's 
me  she's  been  calling  her  father  ever  since  she  could  say 
the  word." 

"  But  I  think  you  might  look  at  the  thing  more  reason- 
ably, Marner,"  said  Godfrey,  unexpectedly  awed  by  the 
weaver's  direct  truth-speaking.  "  It  isn't  as  if  she  was  to 
be  taken  quite  away  from  you,  so  that  you'd  never  see  her 
again.  She'll  be  very  near  you,  and  come  to  see  you  very 
often.  She'll  feel  just  the  same  towards  you." 

"  Just  the  same  ?"  said  Marner,  more  bitterly  than  ever. 
"  How'll  she  feel  just  the  same  for  me  as  she  does  now, 
when  we  eat  o'  the  same  bit,  and  drink  o'  the  same  cup, 
and  think  o'  the  same  things  from  one  day's  end  to  an- 
other ?  Just  the  same  ?  that's  idle  talk.  You'd  cut  us 
i'  two." 

Godfrey,  unqualified  by  experience  to  discern  the  preg- 
nancy of  Marner's  simple  words,  felt  rather  angry  again. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  weaver  was  very  selfish  (a  judg- 
ment readily  passed  by  those  who  have  never  tested  their 
own  power  of  sacrifice)  to  oppose  what  was  undoubtedly 
for  Eppie's  welfare  ;  and  he  felt  himself  called  upon,  for 
her  sake,  to  assert  his  authority. 

"  I  should  have  thought,   Marner,"  he  said,  severely — 

"I  should  have  thought  your  affection  for  Eppie  would 

make  you  rejoice  in  what  was  for  her  good,  even  if  it  did 

call  upon  you  to  give  up  something.     You  ought  to  re- 

14 


210  SILAS  MARNER 

member  your  own  life's  uncertain,  and  she's  at  an  age 
now  when  her  lot  may  soon  be  fixed  in  a  way  very  different 
from  what  it  would  be  in  her  father's  home  :  she  may 
marry  some  low  working-man,  and  then,  whatever  I  might 
do  for  her,  I  couldn't  make  her  well-off.  You're  putting 
yourself  in  the  way  of  her  welfare  ;  and  though  I'm  sorry 
to  hurt  you  after  what  you've  done,  and  what  I've  left  un- 
done, I  feel  now  it's  my  duty  to  insist  on  taking  care  of 
my  own  daughter.  I  want  to  do  my  duty." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  it  were  Silas  or  Ep- 
pie  that  was  more  deeply  stirred  by  this  last  speech  of  God- 
frey's. Thought  had  been  very  busy  in  Eppie  as  she  lis- 
tened to  the  contest  between  her  old  long-loved  father  and 
this  new  unfamiliar  father  who  had  suddenly  come  to  fill 
the  place  of  that  black  featureless  shadow  which  had  held 
the  ring  and  placed  it  on  her  mother's  finger.  Her  imag- 
ination had  darted  backward  in  conjectures,  and  forward 
in  previsions,  of  what  this  revealed  fatherhood  implied ; 
and  there  were  words  in  Godfrey's  last  speech  which 
helped  to  make  the  previsions  especially  definite.  Not 
that  these  thoughts,  either  of  past  or  future,  determined 
her  resolution — that  was  determined  by  the  feelings  which 
vibrated  to  every  word  Silas  had  uttered  ;  but  they  raised, 
even  apart  from  these  feelings,  a  repulsion  towards  the  of- 
fered lot  and  the  newly-revealed  father. 

Silas,  on  the  other  hand,  was  again  stricken  in  con- 
science, and  alarmed  lest  Godfrey's  accusation  should  be 
true — lest  he  should  be  raising  his  own  will  as  an  obstacle 
to  Eppie's  good.  For  many  moments  he  was  mute,  strug- 
gling for  the  self -conquest  necessary  to  the  uttering  of  the 
difficult  words.  They  came  out  tremulously. 

"  I'll  say  no  more.  Let  it  be  as  you  will.  Speak  to  the 
child.  I'll  hinder  nothing." 

Even  Nancy,  with  all  the  acute  sensibility  of  her  own 
affections,  shared  her  husband's  view,  that  Marner  was  not 
justifiable  in  his  wish  to  retain  Eppie,  after  her  real 
father  had  avowed  himself.  She  felt  that  it  was  a  very 


SILAS  MAKNER  211 

hard  trial  for  the  poor  weaver,  but  her  code  allowed  no 
question  that  a  father  by  blood  must  have  a  claim  above 
that  of  any  foster-father.  Besides,  Nancy,  used  all  her 
life  to  plenteous  circumstances  and  the  privileges  of  "  re- 
spectability," could  not  enter  into  the  pleasures  which 
early  nurture  and  habit  connect  with  all  the  little  aims 
and  efforts  of  the  poor  who  are  born  poor  :  to  her  mind, 
Eppie,  in  being  restored  to  her  birthright,  was  entering  on 
a  too  long  withheld  but  unquestionable  good.  Hence  she 
heard  Silas's  last  words  with  relief,  and  thought,  as  God- 
frey did,  that  their  wish  was  achieved. 

"  Eppie,  my  dear/'  said  Godfrey,  looking  at  his 
daughter,  not  without  some  embarrassment,  under  the 
sense  that  she  was  old  enough  to  judge  him,  "  it'll  always 
be  our  wish  that  you  should  show  your  love  and  gratitude 
to  one  who's  been  a  father  to  you  so  many  years,  and  we 
shall  want  to  help  you  to  make  him  comfortable  in  every 
way.  But  we  hope  you'll  come  to  love  us  as  well  ;  and 
though  I  haven't  been  what  a  father  should  ha'  been  to 
you  all  these  years,  I  wish  to  do  the  utmost  in  my  power 
for  you  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  provide  for  you  as  my 
only  child.  And  you'll  have  the  best  of  mothers  in  my 
wife — that'll  be  a  blessing  you  haven't  known  since  you 
were  old  enough  to  know  it." 

' '  My  dear,  you'll  be  a  treasure  to  me,"  said  Nancy,  in 
her  gentle  voice.  "  We  shall  want  for  nothing  when  we 
have  our  daughter." 

Eppie  did  not  come  forward  and  curtsy,  as  she  had  done 
before.  She  held  Silas's  hand  in  hers,  and  grasped  it 
firmly — it  was  a  weaver's  hand,  with  a  palm  and  finger- 
tips that  were  sensitive  to  such  pressure — while  she  spoke 
with  colder  decision  than  before. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am — thank  you,  sir,  for  your  offers — 
they're  very  great,  and  far  above  my  wish.  For  I  should 
have  no  delight  i'  life  any  more  if  I  was  forced  to  go 
away  from  my  father,  and  knew  he  was  sitting  at  home, 
a-thinking  of  me  and  feeling  lone.  We've  been  used  to  be 


212  SILAS  MARNER 

happy  together  every  day,  and  I  can't  think  o'  no  happi- 
ness without  him.  And  he  says  he'd  nobody  i'  the  world 
till  I  was  sent  to  him,  and  he'd  have  nothing  when  I  was 
gone.  And  he's  took  care  of  me  and  loved  me  from  the 
first.,  and  I'll  cleave  to  him  as  long  as  he  lives,  and  nobody 
shall  ever  come  between  him  and  me." 

"  But  you  must  make  sure,  Eppie,"  said  Silas,  in  a  low 
voice — "  you  must  make  sure  as  you  won't  ever  be  sorry, 
because  you've  made  your  choice  to  stay  among  poor  folks, 
and  with  poor  clothes  and  things,  when  you  might  ha'  had 
everything  o'  the  best." 

His  sensitiveness  on  this  point  had  increased  as  he 
listened  to  Eppie's  words  of  faithful  affection. 

"  I  can  never  be  sorry,  father,"  said  Eppie.  "  I  shouldn't 
know  what  to  think  on  or  to  wish  for  with  fine  things 
about  me,  as  I  haven't  been  used  to.  And  it  'ud  be  poor 
work  for  me  to  put  on  things,  and  ride  in  a  gig,  and  sit  in 
a  place  at  church,  as  'ud  make  them  as  I'm  fond  of  think 
me  unfitting  company  for  'em.  What  could  /  care  for 
then  ?  " 

Nancy  looked  at  Godfrey  with  a  pained  questioning 
glance.  But  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor,  where  he 
was  moving  the  end  of  his  stick,  as  if  he  were  pondering 
on  something  absently.  She  thought  there  was  a  word 
which  might  perhaps  come  better  from  her  lips  than  from 
his. 

11  What  you  say  is  natural,  my  dear  child — it's  natural 
you  should  cling  to  those  who've  brought  you  up,"  she 
said,  mildly  ;  "  but  there's  a  duty  you  owe  to  your  lawful 
father.  There's  perhaps  something  to  be  given  up  on 
more  sides  than  one.  When  your  father  opens  his  home 
to  you,  I  think  it's  right  you  shouldn't  turn  your  back 
on  it." 

"I  can't  feel  as  I've  got  any  father  but  one,"  said 
Eppie,  impetuously,  while  the  tears  gathered.  "  I've 
always  thought  of  a  little  home  where  he'd  sit  i'  the  corner, 
and  I  should  fend  and  do  everything  for  him  :  I  can't 


SILAS  MARNER  213 

think  o'  no  other  home.  I  wasn't  brought  up  to  be  a  lady, 
and  I  can't  turn  my  mind  to  it.  I  like  the  working-folks, 
and  their  victuals,  and  their  ways.  And,"  she  ended  pas- 
sionately, while  the  tears  fell,  "  I'm  promised  to  marry  a 
working-man,  as  '11  live  with  father,  and  help  me  to  take 
care  of  him." 

Godfrey  looked  up  at  Nancy  with  a  flushed  face  and 
smarting  dilated  eyes.  This  frustration  of  a  purpose  tow- 
ards which  he  had  set  out  under  the  exalted  consciousness 
that  he  was  about  to  compensate  in  some  degree  for  the 
greatest  demerit  of  his  life,  made  him  feel  the  air  of  the 
room  stifling. 

"Let  us  go,"  he  said,  in  an  under-tone. 

"  We  won't  talk  of  this  any  longer  now/'  said  Nancy, 
rising.  "  We're  your  well-wishers,  my  dear — and  yours 
too,  Marner.  We  shall  come  and  see  you  again.  It's  get- 
ting late  now." 

In  this  way  she  covered  her  husband's  abrupt  departure, 
for  Godfrey  had  gone  straight  to  the  door,  unable  to  say 
more. 

The  novelist  reveals  finely  the  growth  in  Marner  of  the  power  of 
self-sacrifice.  He  runs  the  risk  of  losing  what  he  has  regarded  as  a 
precious  exchange  for  his  lost  gold,  now  that  the  money  has  been 
found. 


CHAPTER  XX 

and  Godfrey  walked  home  under  the  starlight  in 
silence.  When  they  entered  the  oaken  parlour,  Godfrey 
threw  himself  into  his  chair,  while  Nancy  laid  down  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  stood  on  the  hearth  near  her  hus- 
band, unwilling  to  leave  him  even  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
yet  fearing  to  utter  any  word  lest  it  might  jar  on  his  feel- 
ing. At  last  Godfrey  turned  his  head  towards  her,  and 
their  eyes  met,  dwelling  in  that  meeting  without  any 
movement  on  either  side.  That  quiet  mutual  gaze  of  a 
trusting  husband  and  wife  is  like  the  first  moment  of  rest 
or  refuge  from  a  great  weariness  or  a  great  danger — not  to 
be  interfered  with  by  speech  or  action  which  would  dis- 
tract the  sensations  from  the  fresh  enjoyment  of  repose. 

But  presently  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  as  Nancy  placed 
hers  within  it,  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and  said — 

"  That's  ended  !  " 

She  bent  to  kiss  him,  and  then  said,  as  she  stood  by  his 
side,  "  Yes,  Fm  afraid  we  must  give  up  the  hope  of  having 
her  for  a  daughter.  It  wouldn't  be  right  to  want  to  force 
her  to  come  to  us  against  her  will.  We  can't  alter  her 
bringing  up  and  what's  come  of  it." 

"  No,"  said  Godfrey,  with  a  keen  decisiveness  of  tone, 
in  contrast  with  his  usually  careless  and  unemphatic  speech 
— "  there's  debts  we  can't  pay  like  money  debts,  by  paying 
extra  for  the  years  that  have  slipped  by.  While  I've  been 
putting  off  and  putting  off,  the  trees  have  been  growing-- 
it's too  late  now.  Marner  was  in  the  right  in  what  he  said 
about  a  man's  turning  away  a  blessing  from  his  door  :  it 
falls  to  somebody  else.  I  wanted  to  pass  for  childless 
once,  Nancy — I  shall  pass  for  childless  now  against  my 
wish." 


SILAS  MARNER  215 

Nancy  did  not  speak  immediately,  but  after  a  little 
while  she  asked — "  You  won't  make  it  known,  then,  about 
Eppie's  being  your  daughter  ?" 

"No:  where  would  be  the  good  to  anybody? — only 
harm.  I  must  do  what  I  can  for  her  in  the  state  of  life  she 
chooses.  I  must  see  who  it  is  she's  thinking  of  marrying." 

"If  it  won't  do  any  good  to  make  the  thing  known/' 
said  Nancy,  who  thought  she  might  now  allow  herself  the 
relief  of  entertaining  a  feeling  which  she  had  tried  to  si- 
lence before,  "I  should  be  very  thankful  for  father  and 
Priscilla  never  to  be  troubled  with  knowing  what  was  done 
in  the  past,  more  than  about  Dunsey  :  it  can't  be  helped, 
their  knowing  that." 

"  I  shall  put  it  in  my  will — I  think  I  shall  put  it  in  my 
will.  I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  anything  to  be  found  out, 
like  this  about  Dunsey,"  said  Godfrey,  meditatively.  "But 
I  can't  see  anything  but  difficulties  that  'ud  come  from 
telling  it  now.  I  must  do  what  I  can  to  make  her  happy 
in  her  own  way.  I've  a  notion,"  he  added,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  "  it's  Aaron  Winthrop  she  meant  she  was 
engaged  to.  I  remember  seeing  him  with  her  and  Marner 
going  away  from  church." 

"  Well,  he's  very  sober  and  industrious,"  said  Nancy, 
trying  to  view  the  matter  as  cheerfully  as  possible. 

Godfrey  fell  into  thoughtfulness  again.  Presently  he 
looked  up  at  Nancy  sorrowfully,  and  said — 

"  She's  a  very  pretty,  nice  girl,  isn't  she,  Nancy  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear ;  and  with  just  your  hair  and  eyes :  I  wondered 
it  had  never  struck  me  before." 

"  I  think  she  took  a  dislike  to  me  at  the  thought  of  my 
being  her  father  :  I  could  see  a  change  in  her  manner  after 
that." 

"  She  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  not  looking  on  Marner  as 
her  father,"  said  Nancy,  not  wishing  to  confirm  her  hus- 
band's painful  impression. 

"  She  thinks  I  did  wrong  by  her  mother  as  well  as  by 
her.  She  thinks  me  worse  than  I  am.  But  she  must  think 


216  SILAS  MARNER 

it :  she  can  never  know  all.  It's  part  of  my  punishment, 
Nancy,  for  my  daughter  to  dislike  me.  I  should  never 
have  got  into  that  trouble  if  I'd  been  true  to  you — if  I 
hadn't  been  a  fool.  I'd  no  right  to  expect  anything  but 
evil  could  come  of  that  marriage — and  when  I  shirked  do- 
ing a  father's  part  too." 

Nancy  was  silent :  her  spirit  of  rectitude  would  not  let 
her  try  to  soften  the  edge  of  what  she  felt  to  be  a  just  com- 
punction. He  spoke  again  after  a  little  while,  but  the 
tone  was  rather  changed  :  there  was  tenderness  mingled 
with  the  previous  self-reproach. 

"And  I  got  you,  Nancy,  in  spite  of  all  ;  and  yet  I've 
been  grumbling  and  uneasy  because  I  hadn't  something  else 
— as  if  I  deserved  it." 

"  You've  never  been  wanting  to  me,  Godfrey,"  said 
Nancy,  with  quiet  sincerity.  "  My  only  trouble  would  be 
gone  if  you  resigned  yourself  to  the  lot  that's  been  given 
us." 

"  "Well,  perhaps  it  isn't  too  late  to  mend  a  bit  there. 
Though  it  is  too  late  to  mend  some  things,  say  what  they 
will." 

What  good  result  comes  from  Godfrey's  unhappiness  ?    Is  any  part 
of  the  plot  left  undeveloped  ? 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE  next  morning,  when  Silas  and  Eppie  were  seated  at 
their  breakfast,  he  said  to  her — 

"  Eppie,  there's  a  thing  I've  had  on  my  mind  to  do  this 
two  year,  and  now  the  money's  been  brought  back  to  us, 
we  can  do  it.  I've  been  turning  it  over  and  over  in  the 
night,  and  I  think  we'll  set  out  to-morrow,  while  the  fine 
days  last.  We'll  leave  the  house  and  everything  for  your 
godmother  to  take  care  on,  and  we'll  make  a  little  bundle 
o'  things  and  set  out." 

"  Where  to  go,  daddy  ?"  said  Eppie,  in  much  surprise. 

"  To  my  old  country — to  the  town  where  I  was  born — up 
Lantern  Yard.  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Paston,  the  minister  : 
something  may  ha'  come  out  to  make  'em  know  I  was  inni- 
cent  o'  the  robbery.  And  Mr.  Paston  was  a  man  with  a 
deal  o'  light — I  want  to  speak  to  him  about  the  drawing  o' 
the  lots.  And  I  should  like  to  talk  to  him  about  the  relig- 
ion o'  this  country-side,  for  I  partly  think  he  doesn't  know 
on  it." 

Eppie  was  very  joyful,  for  there  was  the  prospect  not 
only  of  wonder  and  delight  at  seeing  a  strange  country, 
but  also  of  coming  back  to  tell  Aaron  all  about  it.  Aaron 
was  so  much  wiser  than  she  was  about  most  things — it 
would  be  rather  pleasant  to  have  this  little  advantage  over 
him.  Mrs.  Winthrop,  though  possessed  with  a  dim  fear 
of  dangers  attendant  on  so  long  a  journey,  and  requiring 
many  assurances  that  it  would  not  take  them  out  of  the  re- 
gion of  carriers'1  carts  and  slow  waggons,  was  nevertheless 

1  The  carrier's  cart  was  a  familiar  feature  of  English  country  life  be- 
fore the  time  of  railroads ;  it  was  slower  than  the  stage-coach,  and 
used  chiefly  for  the  conveyance  of  merchandise. 


SILAS  MARNER 

well  pleased  that  Silas  should  revisit  his  own  country,  and 
find  out  if  he  had  been  cleared  from  that  false  accusation. 

"  You'd  be  easier  in  your  mind  for  the  rest  o'  your  life, 
Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly — "  that  you  would.  And  if 
there's  any  light  to  be  got  up  the  yard  as  you  talk  on, 
we've  need  of  it  i'  this  world,  and  Fd  be  glad  on  it  myself, 
if  you  could  bring  it  back." 

So  on  the  fourth  day  from  that  time,  Silas  and  Eppie,  in 
their  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  small  bundle  tied  in  a  blue 
linen  handkerchief,  were  making  their  way  through  the 
streets  of  a  great  manufacturing  town.  Silas,  bewildered 
by  the  changes  thirty  years  had  brought  over  his  native 
place,  had  stopped  several  persons  in  succession  to  ask 
them  the  name  of  this  town,  that  he  might  be  sure  he  was 
not  under  a  mistake  about  it. 

"Ask  for  Lantern  Yard,  father — ask  this  gentleman 
with  the  tassels  on  his  shoulders  a-standing  at  the  shop 
door  ;  he  isn't  in  a  hurry  like  the  rest,"  said  Eppie,  in 
some  distress  at  her  father's  bewilderment,  and  ill  at  ease, 
besides,  amidst  the  noise,  the  movement,  and  the  multitude 
of  strange  indifferent  faces. 

"  Eh,  my  child,  he  won't  know  anything  about  it/'  said 
Silas ;  "  gentlefolks  didn't  ever  go  up  the  Yard.  But 
happen  somebody  can  tell  me  which  is  the  way  to  Prison 
Street,  where  the  jail  is.  I  know  the  way  out  o'  that  as  if 
I'd  seen  it  yesterday." 

With  some  difficulty,  after  many  turnings  and  new  in- 
quiries, they  reached  Prison  Street ;  and  the  grim  walls  of 
the  jail,  the  first  object  that  answered  to  any  image  in 
Silas's  memory,  cheered  him  with  the  certitude,  which  no 
assurance  of  the  town's  name  had  hitherto  given  him,  that 
he  was  in  his  native  place. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  there's  the 
jail,  Eppie  ;  that's  just  the  same  :  I  aren't  afraid  now. 
It's  the  third  turning  on  the  left  hand  from  the  jail  doors 
— that's  the  way  we  must  go." 

"  0,  what  a  dark  ugly  place  ! "  said  Eppie.     "  How  it 


SILAS  MARNER  219 

hides  the  sky  !  It's  worse  than  the  Workhouse.  I'm  glad 
you  don't  live  in  this  town  now,  father.  Is  Lantern  Yard 
like  this  street  ?  " 

"  My  precious  child,"  said  Silas,  smiling,  "  it  isn't  a 
big  street  like  this.  I  never  was  easy  i'  this  street  myself, 
but  I  was  fond  o'  Lantern  Yard.  The  shops  here  are  all 
altered,  I  think — I  can't  make  'em  out ;  but  I  shall  know 
the  turning,  because  it's  the  third." 

"  Here  it  is,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  as  they 
came  to  a  narrow  alley.  "  And  then  we  must  go  to  the 
left  again,  and  then  straight  for'ard  for  a  bit,  up  Shoe 
Lane  :  and  then  we  shall  be  at  the  entry  next  to  the  o'er- 
hanging  window,  where  there's  the  nick  in  the  road  for  the 
water  to  run.  Eh,  I  can  see  it  all." 

"  0  father,  I'm  like  as  if  I  was  stifled,"  said  Eppie.  "  I 
couldn't  ha'  thought  as  any  folks  lived  i'  this  way,  so  close 
together.  How  pretty  the  Stone-pits  'ull  look  when  we 
get  back  ! " 

"  It  looks  comical  to  me,  child,  now — and  smells  bad. 
I  can't  think  as  it  usened  to  smell  so." 

Here  and  there  a  sallow,  begrimed  face  looked  out  from 
a  gloomy  doorway  at  the  strangers,  and  increased  Eppie's 
uneasiness,  so  that  it  was  a  longed-for  relief  when  they  is- 
sued from  the  alleys  into  Shoe  Lane,  where  there  was  a 
broader  strip  of  sky. 

"  Dear  heart  !  "  said  Silas,  (<  why,  there's  people  coming 
out  o'  the  Yard  as  if  they'd  been  to  chapel  at  this  time  o' 
day — a  weekday  noon  !  " 

Suddenly  he  started  and  stood  still  with  a  look  of  dis- 
tressed amazement,  that  alarmed  Eppie.  They  were  be- 
fore an  opening  in  front  of  a  large  factory,  from  which 
men  and  women  were  streaming  for  their  mid-day  meal. 

"  Father,"  said  Eppie,  clasping  his  arm,  f<  what's  the 
matter  ?  " 

But  she  had  to  speak  again  and  again  before  Silas  could 
answer  her. 

"  It's  gone,  child,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  strong  agitation 


220  SILAS  MARNER 

— "  Lantern  Yard's  gone.  It  must  ha'  been  here,  because 
here's  the  house  with  the  overhanging  window — I  know 
that — it's  just  the  same  ;  but  they've  made  this  new  open- 
ing ;  and  see  that  big  factory  !  It's  all  gone — chapel  and 
all." 

"  Come  into  that  little  brush-shop  and  sit  down,  father 
—they'll  let  you  sit  down,"  said  Eppie,  always  on  the 
watch  lest  one  of  her  father's  strange  attacks  should  come 
on.  "  Perhaps  the  people  can  tell  you  all  about  it." 

But  neither  from  the  brush-maker,  who  had  come  to 
Shoe  Lane  only  ten  years  ago,  when  the  factory  was  al- 
ready built,  nor  from  any  other  source  within  his  reach, 
could  Silas  learn  anything  of  the  old  Lantern  Yard  friends, 
or  of  Mr.  Paston  the  minister. 

"  The  old  place  is  all  swep'  away,"  Silas  said  to  Dolly 
Winthrop  on  the  night  of  his  return — "  the  little  grave- 
yard and  everything.  The  old  home's  gone  ;  I've  no  home 
but  this  now.  I  shall  never  know  whether  they  got  at  the 
truth  o'  the  robbery,  nor  whether  Mr.  Paston  could  ha* 
given  me  any  light  about  the  drawing  o'  the  lots.  .  It's 
dark  to  me,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  that  is ;  I  doubt  it'll  be  dark 
to  the  last." 

"Well,  yes,  Master  Marner,"  said  Dolly,  who  sat  with  a 
placid  listening  face,  now  bordered  by  grey  hairs;  "I 
doubt  it  may.  It's  the  will  o'  Them  above  as  a  many  things 
should  be  dark  to  us  ;  but  there's  some  things  as  I've  never 
felt  r*  the  dark  about,  and  they're  mostly  what  comes  i'  the 
day's  work.  You  were  hard  done  by  that  once,  Master 
Marner,  and  it  seems  as  you'll  never  know  the  rights  of  it  ; 
but  that  doesn't  hinder  there  being  a  rights,  Master  Mar- 
ner, for  all  it's  dark  to  you  and  me." 

"  No,"  said  Silas,  "no  ;  that  doesn't  hinder.  Since  the 
time  the  child  was  sent  to  me  and  I've  come  to  love  her  as 
myself,  Fve  had  light  enough  to  trusten  by  ;  and  now  she 
says  she'll  never  leave  me,  I  think  I  shall  trusten  till  I  die." 


CONCLUSION 

THERE  was  one  time  of  the  year  which  was  held  in  Eaveloe 
to  be  especially  suitable  for  a  wedding.  It  was  when  the 
great  lilacs  and  laburnums  in  the  old-fashioned  gardens 
showed  their  golden  and  purple  wealth  above  the  lichen- 
tinted  walls,  and  when  there  were  calves  still  young  enough 
to  want  bucketfuls  of  fragrant  milk.  People  were  not  so 
busy  then  as  they  must  become  when  the  full  cheese-mak- 
ing and  the  mowing  had  set  in  ;  and  besides,  it  was  a  time 
when  a  light  bridal  dress  could  be  worn  with  comfort  and 
seen  to  advantage. 

Happily  the  sunshine  fell  more  warmly  than  usual  on 
the  lilac  tufts  the  morning  that  Eppie  was  married,  for  her 
dress  was  a  very  light  one.  She  had  often  thought,  though 
with  a  feeling  of  renunciation,  that  the  perfection  of  a  wed- 
ding-dress would  be  a  white  cotton,  with  the  tiniest  pink 
sprig  at  wide  intervals  ;  so  that  when  Mrs.  Godfrey  Cass 
begged  to  provide  one,  and  asked  Eppie  to  choose  what  it 
should  be,  previous  meditation  had  enabled  her  to  give  a 
decided  answer  at  once. 

Seen  at  a  little  distance  as  she  walked  across  the  church- 
yard and  down  the  village,  she  seemed  to  be  attired  in  pure 
white,  and  her  hair  looked  like  the  dash  of  gold  on  a  lily. 
One  hand  was  on  her  husband's  arm,  and  with  the  other 
she  clasped  the  hand  of  her  father  Silas. 

"  You  won't  be  giving  me  away,  father/'  she  had  said 
before  they  went  to  church  ;  "you'll  only  be  taking  Aaron 
to  be  a  son  to  you." 

Dolly  Winthrop  walked  behind  with  her  husband  ;  and 
there  ended  the  little  bridal  procession. 

There  were  many  eyes  to  look  at  it,  and  Miss  Priscilla 


222  SILAS  MAENER 

Lammeter  was  glad  that  she  and  her  father  had  happened 
to  drive  up  to  the  door  of  the  Eed  House  just  in  time  to 
see  this  pretty  sight.  They  had  come  to  keep  Nancy  com- 
pany to-day,  because  Mr.  Cass  had  had  to  go  away  to 
Lytherley,  for  special  reasons.  That  seemed  to  be  a  pity, 
for  otherwise  he  might  have  gone,  as  Mr.  Crackenthorp 
and  Mr.  Osgood  certainly  would,  to  look  on  at  the  wedding- 
feast  which  he  had  ordered  at  the  Rainbow,  naturally  feel- 
ing a  great  interest  in  the  weaver  who  had  been  wronged 
by  one  of  his  own  family. 

"  I  could  ha'  wished  Nancy  had  had  the  luck  to  find  a 
child  like  that  and  bring  her  up,"  said  Priscilla  to  her 
father,  as  they  sat  in  the  gig  ;  "  I  should  ha'  had  something 
young  to  think  of  then,  besides  the  lambs  and  the  calves." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Lammeter ;  "  one  feels 
that  as  one  gets  older.  Things  look  dim  to  old  folks  : 
they'd  need  have  some  young  eyes  about  'em,  to  let  'em 
know  the  world's  the  same  as  it  used  to  be." 

Nancy  came  out  now  to  welcome  her  father  and  sister  ; 
and  the  wedding  group  had  passed  on  beyond  the  Red 
House  to  the  humbler  part  of  the  village. 

Dolly  Winthrop  was  the  first  to  divine  that  old  Mr. 
Macey,  who  had  been  set  in  his  arm-chair  outside  his  own. 
door,  would  expect  some  special  notice  as  they  passed,  since 
he  was  too  old  to  be  at  the  wedding-feast. 

"  Mr.  Macey's  looking  for  a  word  from  ns,"  said  Dolly  ; 
"he'll  be  hurt  if  we  pass  him  and  say  nothing — and  him 
so  racked  with  rheumatiz." 

So  they  turned  aside  to  shake  hands  with  the  old  man. 
He  had  looked  forward  to  the  occasion,  and  had  his  pre- 
meditated speech. 

"  Well,  Master  Marner,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  quavered 
a  good  deal,  "  I've  lived  to  see  my  words  come  true.  I  was 
the  first  to  say  there  was  no  harm  in  you,  though  your  looks 
might  be  again*  you  ;  and  I  was  the  first  to  say  you'd  get 
your  money  back.  And  it's  nothing  but  rightful  as  you 
should.  And  I'd  ha'  said  the  '  Amens/  and  willing,  at  the 


SILAS  MARNER  223 

holy  matrimony  ;  but  Tookey's  done  it  a  good  while  now, 
and  I  hope  you'll  have  none  the  worse  luck." 

la  <the  open  yard  before  the  Rainbow  the  party  of  guests 
were  already  assembled,  though  it  was  still  nearly  an  hour 
before  the  appointed  feast-time.  But  by  this  means  they 
could  not  only  enjoy  the  slow  advent  of  their  pleasure ; 
they  had  also  ample  leisure  to  talk  of  Silas  Marner's  strange 
history,  and  arrive  by  due  degrees  at  the  conclusion  that 
he  had  brought  a  blessing  on  himself  by  acting  like  a  father 
to  a  lone  motherless  child.  Even  the  farrier  did  not  neg- 
ative this  sentiment :  on  the  contrary,  he  took  it  up  as 
peculiarly  his  own,  and  invited  any  hardy  person  present 
to  contradict  him.  But  he  met  with  no  contradiction  ;  and 
all  differences  among  the  company  were  merged  in  a  gen- 
eral agreement  with  Mr.  SnelFs  sentiment,  that  when  a 
man  had  deserved  his  good  luck,  it  was  the  part  of  his 
neighbours  to  wish  him  joy. 

As  the  bridal  group  approached,  a  hearty  cheer  was 
raised  in  the  Eainbow  yard ;  and  Ben  Winthrop,  whose 
jokes  had  retained  their  acceptable  flavour,  found  it  agree- 
able to  turn  in  there  and  receive  congratulations  ;  not 
requiring  the  proposed  interval  of  quiet  at  the  Stone-pits 
before  joining  the  company. 

Eppie  had  a  larger  garden  than  she  had  ever  expected 
there  now  ;  and  in  other  ways  there  had  been  alterations  at 
the  expense  of  Mr.  Cass,  the  landlord,  to  suit  Silas's  larger 
family.  For  he  and  Eppie  had  declared  that  they  would 
rather  stay  at  the  Stone-pits  than  go  to  any  new  home. 
The  garden  was  fenced  with  stones  on  two  sides,  but  in 
front  there  was  an  open  fence,  through  which  the  flowers 
shone  with  answering  gladness,  as  the  four  united  people 
came  within  sight  of  them. 

"  0  father,"  said  Eppie,  "what  a  pretty  home  ours  is  1 
I  think  nobody  could  be  happier  than  we  are/' 

With  admirable  dramatic  completeness  the  author  puts  the  remote 
past  of  wrong  forever  out  of  Marner's  life.  The  last  paragraph  of  the 
preceding  chapter  really  closes  the  book  and  might  be  regarded  as  the 


224  SILAS  MARNER 

text  of  the  stofy.  The  conclusion  satisfies  the  reader's  natural  desire 
to  have  all  the  characters  reassembled  and  Eppie's  happiness,  in  which 
Marner's  is  included,  made  evident.  The  tale  which  began  in  the 
gloom  caused  by  Marner's  broken  faith  ends  in  quiet  joy. 


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„  Cloth,  50  cents 

See  comments  on  page  ij. 

MACAULAY'S  LIFE  CF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  together  with  his  Essay  on 

Johnson.     Edited,  with  introduction  and  notes,  by  the  Rev.  HUBER 

GRAY  BUEHLER,  of  the  Hotchkiss  School,  Lakeville,  Conn.     With 

Portrait  of  Johnson.  Cloth,  50  cents 

See  comments  on  page  15. 

MILTON'S  PARADISE  LOST.  BOOKS  I.  AND  II.  Edited,  with  intro- 
duction and  notes,  by  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE,  Jr.,  Ph.D.,  Pro- 
fessor of  Rhetoric  and  Logic  in  Union  College.  With  Portrait  of 
Milton.  Cloth,  50  cents 

See  comment  on  page  15.  Boards,  35  cents 

SCOTT'S  MARMION.  Edited,  with  introduction  and  notes,  by  ROBERT 
MORSS  LOVETT,  A.B. ,  Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Chicago.  With  Portrait  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

See  comment  on  page  n.  Cloth,  75  cents 


LONGMANS'  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


SCOTT'S  WOODSTOCK.  Edited,  with  introduction  and  notes,  by  BLISS 
PERRY,  A.M.,  Professor  of  Oratory  and  Esthetic  Criticism  in 
Princeton  University.  With  Portrait  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

See  comments  on  page  12.  Cloth,  75  cents 

SHAKSPERE'S  As  You  LIKE  IT.  With  an  introduction  by  BARRETT 
WENDELL,  A.B.,  Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, and  notes  by  WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS,  Ph.D.,  Assistant 
Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Yale  University.  Portrait. 

See  comment  on  page  15.  Cloth,  60  cents 

SHAKSPERE'S  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM.  Edited,  with  intro- 
duction and  notes,  by  GEORGE  PIERCE  BAKER,  A.B.,  Assistant 
Professor  of  English  in  Harvard  University.  With  Frontispiece, 
"  Imitation  of  an  Elizabethan  Stage."  Cloth,  60  cents 

The  editor  believes  that  if  a  boy  or  girl  can  be  made  to  see  that  the 
play  is  not  simply  a  piece  of  literature  prescribed  for  his  preparatory 
reading  for  college  examinations,  but  a  play  as  vivid  and  interesting  to 
the  Londoners  of  nearly  three  centuries  ago  as  is  any  play  of  to-day  to 
him,  and  also  that  reading  it  will  give  him  more  knowledge  of  a  time 
that  has  been  made  by  its  picturesqueness  to  rouse  his  curiosity  and 
stimulate  his  imagination,  the  reading  that  would  otherwise  be  a  task 
will  become  a  pleasure. 

For  these  reasons  the  editor  has  tried  to  make  the  Introduction  a  vivid 
picture  of  the  London  of  1600, — its  streets,  people,  theatres,  customs, — 
to  make  the  old  dramatists  and  the  conditions  under  which  they  worked 
real  and  living.  It  is  hoped,  therefore,  that  the  Introduction  will  show 
a  reader  the  picturesqueness  of  Shakspere's  time  and  make  him  eager  to 
read  the  play  for  itself. 

SOUTHEY'S  LIFE  OF  NELSON.     Edited,  with  introduction  and  notes,  by 

EDWIN  L.  MILLER,  A.M.,  of  the  Englewood  High  School,  Illinois. 

With  Portrait  of  Nelson.  Cloth,  75  cents 

"A  most  excellent  work  for  High  School  English.      It  is  the  best  I 

have  ever  had  the  opportunity  to  examine." 

— Supt.  R.  E.  DENFELD,  Duluth,  Minn. 

WEBSTER'S  FIRST  BUNKER  HILL  ORATION,  together  with  other  Ad- 
dresses relating  to  the  Revolution.  Edited,  with  introduction  and 
notes,  by  FRED  NEWTON  SCOTT,  Ph.D.,  Junior  Professor  of  Rhet- 
oric in  the  University  of  Michigan.  With  Portrait  of  Daniel 
Webster.  See  comments  on  page  13.  Cloth,  60  cents 


"  Differ  as  we  may  about  the  best  way  of  teaching  English  litera- 
ture we  are  likely  to  agree  that  this  series  is  built  in  the  main  upon  the 
right  lines.  It  is  unexceptionable  in  its  outward  form  and  habit.  It 
gives  us  in  every  case  a  clearly  printed  text,  sufficiently  annotated,  but 
not,  as  a  rule,  overweighted  with  pedantic  comments  ;  a  biographical 
and  critical  introduction  ;  a  bibliography,  through  which  the  student  can 
find  his  way  to  the  literary  and  historical  setting  of  the  particular  classic 
on  which  he  is  engaged ;  a  chronological  table  and  some  hints  to 
teachers — often  of  a  most  suggestive  and  helpful  character.  In  every 
case  we  thus  have  a  book  edited  according  to  an  excellent  general 
plan.  .  .  .  " — The  Educational 


8  LONGMANS'   ENGLISH   CLASSICS 

COMMENTS   ON   THE    SERIES 

"  These  three  books,  then  {referring  to  the  three  Shakspere  Comedies 
of  the  Series),  as  we  reconsider  them,  are  seen  to  have  one  admirable 
element ;  namely,  ideas.  A  teacher,  or  any  one  else  for  that  matter, 
who  studies  them,  will  get  something  new  about  the  teaching  of  English. 
A  good  teacher  will  do  better  work  with  them,  not  only  in  these  particu- 
lar plays,  but  along  the  whole  line,  through  a  certain  ferment  of  the 
imagination,  a  vitalization  of  thought,  which  comes  to  pass  in  studying 
these  volumes.  Such,  indeed,  is  the  main  service  rendered  by  this 
series  as  a  whole.  An  examination  of  the  .  .  .  volumes  already  pub- 
lished impresses  one  strongly  with  a  feeling  of  life  and  vigor  .  .  .  The 
work  of  the  general  editor  is  one  of  the  strong  points  of  the  series, 
nowhere  showing  to  better  advantage  than  in  his  selection  of  responsible 
editors  for  the  separate  volumes.  They  are  a  very  representative  set  of 
men — representative,  that  is,  of  the  younger  set  of  teachers  of  English 
Literature.  The  series  as  a  whole  has  great  pedagogic  value  for  the 
English  student.  The  Suggestions  to  Teachers,  as  developed  by  the 
different  editors,  would  make  an  admirable  comment  on  the  report  of  the 
Conference  on  English  to  the  Committee  of  Ten.  One  volume  or  another 
may  not  fall  in  very  well  with  one's  views,  but  when  one  considers  them 
all,  one  cannot  deny  that  they  offer  a  very  inspiring  and  suggestive  display 
of  scholarly  work." — From  the  Educational  Review,  for  April,  1897. 

"  I  want  to  express  my  hearty  appreciation  of  the  labors  of  those 
who  have  compiled  this  excellent  series,  and  of  the  publishers  who  have 
made  it  possible  for  high-school  pupils  to  enter  upon  the  study  of  Litera- 
ture with  so  much  enjoyment.  Indeed,  so  helpful  are  the  notes  and 
suggestions  that  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  a  young  person  with 
this  series  in  his  possession  could  almost  obtain  a  liberal  education  with- 
out the  aid  of  a  teacher." 

— EDITH  L.  SWAIN,  Laconia  High  School,  Lakeport,  N.  H. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  writing  testimonials,  but  a  regard  for  the 
highest  interests  of  our  young  people  preparing  for  college  work,  makes 
it  my  duty  to  commend  in  unqualified  terms  your  most  excellent  series 
of  ENGLISH  CLASSICS.  Nothing  has  been  left  undone.  The  editor, 
the  annotator,  the  printer,  the  binder,  has  each  in  turn  shown  himself 
master  of  his  work.  The  books  need  only  to  be  known  to  be  used,  and 
they  must  soon  find  a  way  into  every  secondary  school  whose  instructors 
in  English  are  real  teachers,  intelligent  and  up  to  date." 

— A.  F.  NIGHTINGALE,  Supt.  of  High  Schools,  Chicago. 

"After  comparison  with  others,  I  believe  that  your  series  is  the 
most  scholarly  and  at  the  same  time  the  most  teachable  of  any  at  present 
in  the  market." — JOHN  MACDUFFIE,  School  for  Girls,  Springfield,  Mass. 


LONGMANS'  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


"  The  set  which  you  are  getting  out  is  on  the  whole  much  superior 
to  any  with  which  I  am  familiar.  I  am  delighted  to  think  it  is  a 
possibility." — GEORGE  D.  KNIGHTS,  English  Master,  The  Hamilton 

School,  Philadelphia, 

"Of  all  the  numerous  editions  which  have  been  recently  published, 
I  consider  yours  the  best  that  I  have  seen." 

— ELMER  JAMES  BAILEY,  State  Normal  School,  New  Paltz,  N.  Y. 

"  The  series  is  a  credit  to  American  scholarship." 
— MARTIN  W.  SAMPSON,  Professor  of  English,  University  of  Indiana. 

"  As  a  series  the  books  have  two  strong  points  :  there  is  a  unity  of 
method  in  editing  that  I  have  seen  in  no  other  series  ;  the  books  are  freer 
from  objections  in  regard  to  the  amount  and  kind  of  editing  than  any 
other  series  I  know." 

— BYRON  GROCE,  Master  in  English,  Boston  Latin  School. 

"  With  their  clear  type,  good  paper,  sober  and  attractive  binding — 
good  enough  for  any  library  shelves — with  their  introductions,  sug- 
gestions to  teachers,  and  notes,  I  do  not  see  how  much  more  could  be 
desired." — Prof.  D.  L.  MAULSBY,  Tufts  College. 

"  Admirably  adapted  to  accomplish  what  you  intend — to  interest 
young   persons  in  thoughtful    reading   of   noble    literature.     The   help 
given    seems  just   what  is  needed  ;  its  generosity  is  not  of  the  sort  to 
make  the  young  student  unable  to  help  himself.     I  am  greatly  pleased 
with  the  plan  and  with  its  execution." — Prof.  C.  B.  BRADLEY,  Univer- 
sity of  California  ;  Member  of  English  Conference  of  the  National 
Committee  of  Ten. 

"The  series  is  admirably  planned,  the  'Suggestions  to  Teachers' 
being  a  peculiarly  valuable  feature. 

— Prof.  KATHERINE  LEE  BATES,  Wellesley  College. 

"  The  introductions,  the  suggestions  to  teachers,  the  chronological 
tables,  and  the  notes  are  most  admirable  in  design  and  execution.  The 
editor-in-chief  and  his  associates  have  rendered  a  distinct  service  to 
secondary  schools." — CHARLES  C.  RAMSAY,  Principal  of  Durfee  High 

School,  Fall  River,  Mass. 

"It  is  the  most  attractive,  most  consistent,  most  practicable,  and 
at  the  same  time  most  scholarly  series  for  college  preparation,  yet 
produced." — Principal  GEORGE  H.  BROWNE,  Cambridge  Mass. 


LONGMANS'  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


COOPER'S  'LAST  OF  THE  MOHICANS.' 

"We  have  adopted  the  'Last  of  the  Mohicans'  in  one  of  our 
classes  and  find  it  an  admirable  edition  in  every  particular." 

— T.  E.  LYON,  The  Barnard  School,  N.  Y. 

"  It  is  of  the  same  high  grade  as  the  others  of  your  '  English  Classic 
Series'  which  we  have  introduced.    We  shall  continue  to  use  your  books 
next  year,  in  those  classes  preparing  for  the  '98  and  '99  examinations." 
— DAVID  ALLEN  CENTER,  Woodbridge  School,  N,  Y,  City. 

TENNYSON'S  •  PRINCESS.' 

"  I  am  delighted  with  the  '  Introduction'  and  'Suggestions.'  It  is 
so  comfortable  to  find  an  editor  who  does  not  ask  us  to  spoil  the  delicate 
beauty  of  the  poem  by  extreme  analysis." 

— Miss  ELIZA  F.  HAMMOND,  Leicester  Academy,  Leicester,  Mass. 

"  The  work  maintains  the  high  standard  already  attained  throughout 

the  entire  series  of  '  English  Classics.'     These  volumes  have  been  used 

in  Harvard  School  with  excellent  results,  and  I  can  assure  the  publishers 

that  the  English  masters  of  the  school  heartily  recommend  the  edition." 

— FRANK  POOLE  JOHNSON,  Harvard  School,  N,  Y. 

'  MACBETH.' 

"The  editing  of  Macbeth  is  what  one  would  expect  from  Prof. 
Manly,  scholarly  and  literary.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  most  pleasing  section 
of  that  portion  of  the  book  is  concerned  with  'sign-board  criticism.'  I 
think  you  are  to  be  thanked  as  well  as  congratulated  for  the  excellence 
of  the  series  to  which  these  books  belong." 

— Prof.  ELMER  WENTWORTH,  Vassar  College,  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y. 

"  Any  pupil  must  become  interested  in  the  great  dramatist  who  has 
such  a  pleasing  text  as  is  presented  in  your  publication." 

— Miss  M.  F.  RICE,  Robinson  Seminary,  Exeter,  N.  H. 

"  With  accurate  scholarship  Dr.  Manly  seems  to  me  to  combine 
extraordinary  good  sense  in  his  treatment  of  Shakspere.  I  will  intro- 
duce the  volume  to  my  colleagues  and  friends,  as  it  seems  to  me  the  best 
guide  to  '  Macbeth.'  " 

— Prof.  W.  H.  CARRUTH,  University  of  Kansas,  Lawrence,  Kan. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  best  edition  I  have  ever  seen — certainly  the  best 
text-book.  The  '  Suggestions  to  Teachers '  are  admirable,  and  the  notes 
are  so  full  and  clear  as  to  enable  the  student  to  understand  the  subject 
thoroughly;  and  hence  they  excite  interest  and  encourage  him  to  the  study 
of  classic  literature." 

— J.  T.  MURFEE,  Marion  Military  Inst.,  Marion,  Ala. 


LONGMANS'  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


SCOTT'S 

"  I  decided  upon  your  Scott's  '  Marmion  '  and  Burke's  '  Speech '  for 
class  use,  as  they  are  unquestionably  the  best  editions  of  the  series  that 
I  have  seen." — EZRA  LEHMAN,  Cumberland  Valley  Normal  School,  Ship- 

pensburg,  Pa. 

"  The  notes  .  .  .  sensible  and  pertinent,  not  leading  the  young 
student  into  labyrinths  of  learned  analysis,  comparisons  and  quotations, 
but  proving,  as  notes  should  be,  a  real  aid,  and  not,  as  is  too  often  the 
case  with  annotations  of  to-day,  a  cause  for  further  perplexity." 

— J.  A.  SHAW,  The  Highland  Military  Academy,  Worcester,  Mass. 

'  BURKE'S  SPEECH.' 

"The  editorial  work  is  worthy  of  the  masterpiece  of  one  of  the 
greatest  orators  of  all  time.  The  introduction  prepares  the  way  by  a 
most  lucid  statement  of  the  history  necessary  to  comprehend  the  points 
covered  in  this  great  oration.  The  clearness,  the  accuracy  and  fulness- 
of  the  introductory  investigations  are  followed  by  the  oration  itself, 
arranged  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  the  mastery  of  its  arguments  easy, 
and  their  retention  in  the  memory  permanent.  The  notes,  both  explan- 
atory of  the  allusions  in  the  speech,  and  illustrative  of  its  wonderful 
oratorical  richness,  give  a  unique  value  to  this  edition,  and  must  greatly 
enhance  the  editor's  reputation  in  a  comparatively  new  field." 
— JACOB  COOPER,  D.D.,  D.C.L.,  LL.D.,  Professor  in  Rutgers  College. 

"  We  are  now  using  your  Burke's  '  Conciliation  with  America'  with 
very  great  satisfaction." 

— BYRON  GROCE,  Public  Latin  School,  Boston,  Mass> 

CARLYLE'S  '  BURNS.' 

"  Permit  me  to  express  the  pleasure  I  have  found  in  reading  your 
Farrand's  edition  of  Carlyle's  'Burns.'  It  is  a  remarkable  example  of 
editing,  exactly  adapted  to  its  purpose." 

—ROBERT  H.  NICHOLS,  Ph.D.,  The  Hill  School,  Pottstown,  Pa. 

"  Enough  is  given  to  make  the  study  of  Burns  a  delight  to  the  right- 
minded  pupil,  and   to  open  the  door  for  the  teacher  into  a  new   and 
broader  appreciation  of  the  two  great  Scotchmen." 
— ALBERT  EDWARD  BAILEY,  A.  B., Worcester  Academy, Worcester, Mass. 

"  It  seems  to  me  the  edition  of  Carlyle's  '  Burns,'  edited  by  Mr. 
Farrand,  is  the  best  for  school  use.  I  am  particularly  pleased  with  the 
specimen  topics  for  written  exercises  and  examination  papers." 

— HELEN  MARSHALL,  Norwich  Female  Academy,  Norwich,  Conn. 

"  It  pleases  me  decidedly  better  than  any  other  edition  that  I  have 
seen.  The  introduction  is  suggestive  and  the  '  Notes '  are  what  they 
profess  to  be — '  explanatory.'  " — CAROLINE  CARPENTER,  Lasell  Seminary 

for  Young  Ladies,  Auburndale,  Mass. 


LONGMANS'   ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


IRVING'S  '  TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER.' 

"  I  feel  bound  to  say  that,  if  the  series  of  ENGLISH  CLASSICS  is 
carried  out  after  the  plan  of  this  initial  volume,  it  will  contribute  much 
toward  making  the  study  of  literature  a  pure  delight." 

— Prof.  A.  G.  NEWCOMER,  Leland  Stanford  Jr.  University. 

"  I  have  looked  through  the  first  volume  of  your  ENGLISH  CLASSICS, 
Irving's  '  Tales  of  a  Traveller,'  and  do  not  see  how  literature  could  be 
made  more  attractive  to  the  secondary  schools." — Prof.  EDWARD  A. 
ALLEN,  University  of  Missouri  ;  Member  of  the  English  Conference  of 
the  National  Committee  of  Ten. 

"  I  have  received  your  Irving's  'Tales of  a  Traveller'  and  examined 
it  with  much  pleasure.  The  helpful  suggestions  to  teachers,  the 
judicious  notes,  the  careful  editing,  and  the  substantial  binding  make  it 
the  most  desirable  volume  for  class  use  on  the  subject,  that  has  come  to 
my  notice." — EDWIN  CORNELL,  Principal  of  Central  Valley  Union 
School,  N.  Y. 

GEORGE  ELIOT'S  •  SILAS  MARNER.' 

' '  This  book  is  really  attractive  and  inviting.  The  introduction, 
particularly  the  suggestions  to  pupils  and  teachers,  is  a  piece  of  real 
helpfulness  and  wisdom." 

— D.  E.  BOWMAN,  Principal  of  High  School,  Waterville,  Me. 

"The  edition  of  'Silas  Marner'  recently  sent  out  by  you  leaves 
nothing  undone.  I  find  the  book  handsome,  the  notes  sensible  and 
clear.  I'm  glad  to  see  a  book  so  well  adapted  to  High  School  needs, 
and  I  shall  recommend  it,  without  reserve,  as  a  safe  and  clean  book  to 
put  before  our  pupils." 

— JAMES  W.  McLANE,  Central  High  School,  Cleveland,  O. 

SCOTT'S  '  WOODSTOCK.' 

"  Scott's  '  Woodstock,'  edited  by  Professor  Bliss  Perry,  deepens  the 
impression  made  by  the  earlier  numbers  that  this  series,  LONGMANS' 
ENGLISH  CLASSICS,  is  one  of  unusual  excellence  in  the  editing,  and  will 
prove  a  valuable  auxiliary  in  the  reform  of  English  teaching  now 
generally  in  progress.  .  .  .  We  have,  in  addition  to  the  unabridged 
text  of  the  novel,  a  careful  editorial  introduction  ;  the  author's  intro- 
duction, preface  and  notes  ;  a  reprint  of  '  The  Just  Devil  of  Woodstock'; 
and  such  foot-notes  as  the  student  will  need  as  he  turns  from  page  to 
page.  Besides  all  this  apparatus,  many  of  the  chapters  have  appended 
a  few  suggestive  hints  for  character-study,  collateral  reading  and  dis- 
cussions of  the  art  of  fiction.  All  this  matter  is  so  skillfully  distributed 
that  it  does  not  weigh  upon  the  conscience,  and  is  not  likely  to  make  the 


LONGMANS'  ENGLISH  CLASSICS  13 

student  forget  that  he  is,  after  all,  reading  a  novel  chiefly  for  the 
pleasure  it  affords.  The  entire  aim  of  this  volume  and  its  companions 
is  literary  rather  than  historical  or  linguistic,  and  in  this  fact  their  chief 
value  is  to  be  found."  — The  Dial. 

"I  heartily  approve  of  the  manner  in  which  the  editor's  work  has 
been  done.  This  book,  if  properly  used  by  the  teacher  and  supple- 
mented by  the  work  so  clearly  suggested  in  the  notes,  may  be  made  of 
great  value  to  students,  not  only  as  literature  but  as  affording  oppor- 
tunity for  historical  research  and  exercise  in  composition." 

— LILLIAN  G.  KIMBALL,  State  Normal  School,  Oshkosh,  Wis. 

DEFOE'S  'HISTORY  OF  THE  PLAGUE  IN  LONDON.' 

"He  gives  an  interesting  biography  of  Defoe,  an  account  of  his 
works,  a  discussion  of  their  ethical  influence  (including  that  of  this 
'somewhat  sensational'  novel),  some  suggestions  to  teachers  and  students, 
and  a  list  of  references  for  future  study.  This  is  all  valuable  and  sugges- 
tive. The  reader  wishes  that  there  were  more  of  it.  Indeed,  the  criticism 
I  was  about  to  offer  on  this  series  is  perhaps  their  chief  excellence. 
One  wishes  that  the  introductions  were  longer  and  more  exhaustive. 
For,  contrary  to  custom,  as  expressed  in  Gratiano's  query,  'Who  riseth 
from  a  feast  with  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down  ? '  the  young 
student  will  doubtless  finish  these  introductions  hungering  for  more. 
And  this,  perhaps,  was  the  editor's  object  in  view,  viz.,  that  the  intro- 
ductory and  explanatory  matter  should  be  suggestive  and  stimulating 
rather  than  complete  and  exhaustive  !  " — Educational  Review. 

"  I  have  taken  great  pleasure  in  examining  your  edition  of  Defoe's 
'  Plague  in  London.'  The  introduction  and  notes  are  beyond  reproach, 
and  the  binding  and  typography  are  ideal.  The  American  school-boy 
is  to  be  congratulated  that  he  at  length  may  study  his  English  from 
books  in  so  attractive  a  dress." — GEORGE  N.  MCKNIGHT,  Instructor  in 
English,  Cornell  University. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  the  copy  of  the  'Journal  of  the 
Plague.'  I  am  particularly  pleased  with  Professor  Carpenter's  intro- 
duction and  his  handling  of  the  difficult  points  in  Defoe's  life." — HAM- 
MOND LAMONT,  A.B.,  Associate  Professor  of  Composition  and  Rhetoric 
in  Brown  University. 

MACAULAY'S  '  ESSAY  ON  MILTON.' 

"  I  have  examined  the  Milton  and  am  much  pleased  with  it ;  it  fully 
sustains  the  high  standard  of  the  other  works  of  this  series  ;  the  intro- 
duction, the  suggestions  to  teachers,  and  the  notes  are  admirable." 

—WILLIAM  NICHOLS,  The  Nichols  School,  Buffalo,  N.  Y. 


I4  LONGMANS'  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 

"  I  have  never  seen  notes  on  a  text  that  were  more  admirable  than 
these.  They  contain  just  the  information  proper  to  impart,  and  are 
unusually  well  expressed." 

— CHARLES  C.  RAMSAY,  Principal  of  Fall  River  High  School. 

COLERIDGE'S  'ANCIENT  MARINER.' 

"It  is  the  best  edition  of  the  poem  that  I  know  of.  The  editor 
points  out  precisely  the  things  that  a  class  should  observe;  the  questions 
are  searching  and  suggestive;  the  notes  lucid  and  literary." — Professor 
MARTIN  W.  SAMPSON,  University  of  Indiana,  Bloomington,  Ind. 

"  If  your  series  of  ENGLISH  CLASSICS  is  to  be  judged  by  this  volume, 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  it  superior  to  any  other  with  which  I  am 
familiar.  Mr.  Bates'  edition  is  the  best  annotation  of  the  '  Ancient 
Mariner  '  I  have  yet  seen." 

— L.  L.  RICE,  Cumberland  University,  Lebanon,  Tenn. 

"  I  am  especially  pleased  with  the  brevity,  pointedness  and  suggest- 
iveness  of  the  notes." 

— WILLIAM  J.  HARRINGTON,  S.J.,  Detroit  College,  Detroit,  Mich. 

"  Does  more  than  any  school  edition  we  know,  to  help  the  young 
student  to  an  appreciation  of  the  poem." — Journal  of  Pedagogy, 

MILTON'S  '  L'ALLEGRO,  IL  PENSEROSO,'  ETC. 

"  Professor  Trent's  sympathetic  treatment  on  the  literary  side  of 
the  subject  matter,  makes  the  introductions  and  notes  of  more  than  usual 
interest  and  profit;  and  I  think  that  it  is  just  such  editing  as  this  that 
•our  younger  students  need  in  approaching  the  works  of  the  great  poets." 

— J.  RUSSELL  HAYES,  Assistant  Professor  of  English,  Swarthmore 

College,  Pa. 

"  I  have  given  this  book  a  thorough  class-room  test  and  am  much 
pleased  with  it.  I  would  lay  stress  upon  the  fact  that  it  gives  the 
student  accurate  and  judicious  aid." 

— Principal  W.  D.  MOONEY,  Franklin,  Tenn. 

SHAKSPERE'S  '  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.' 

"  The  book  .  .  .  is  a  model  of  thorough  scholarship." — Principal 
MARGARET  J.  EVANS,  Carleton  College,  Northfield,  Minn. 

"  Its  superior  point  of  excellence  is,  that  it  insists,  in  all  proper 
places,  upon  finding  out  what  the  poet  meant  to  say  rather  than  what,  in 
a  hidden  way,  he  intended  to  darkly  hint.  I  know  of  no  other  edition 
that  brings  out  this  valuable  'point'  so  well." — Professor  ENOCH 
PERRINE,  A.M.,  Litt.  D.,  Bucknell  University,  Lewisburg,  Pa. 


LONGMANS'  ENGLISH  CLASSICS  15 

SHAKSPERE'S  '  As  You  LIKE  IT.' 

"  Professor  Wendell's   Introduction  is  written  in  a  charming  and 

interesting  style  and    is  marked  by  discriminating  judgment  and  the 

presentation  of  just  the  facts  needed  for  an  intelligent  study  of  the  play. 

The  same  good  sense  also  marks  Professor  Phelps'  notes  and  comments." 

— C.  C.  RAMSAY,  Prin.  Durfee  High  School,  Fall  River,  Mass. 

WEBSTER'S  '  BUNKER  HILL  ORATION.' 

"  The  introduction  is  very  good,  and  the  criticism  of  Webster's  style 
is  excellent." — Boston  Pilot. 

"  We  have  seen  no  better  school  edition  of  this  work,  which  is  now 
included  in  the  preparatory  reading  required  by  all  the  leading  colleges 
of  the  country." — The  Critic,  New  York. 

MACAULAY'S  -LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.' 

"  A  remarkable  school  edition.  I  have  seen  nothing  more  satisfac- 
tory in  the  editing  of  any  classic." 

— JOHN  C.  GRANT,  The  Harvard  School,  Chicago. 

"  Of  all  the  numerous  editions  which  have  been  recently  published 
I  consider  yours  the  best  that  I  have  seen.  The  entire  make-up  is 
unusually  good,  while  the  price  is  noticeably  cheap." — Prof.  ELMER 
JAMES  BAILEY,  State  Normal  School,  New  Paltz,  N.  Y. 

MILTON'S  'PARADISE  LOST.' 

"  Allow  me  to  say  that  Mr.  Hale's  essay  is  a  creditable  addition  to 
the  immense  bulk  now  existing  of  writing  on  Miltonic  themes." 

— SAMUEL  THURBER,  Master  in  Girls'  High  School,  Boston,  Mass. 

DE  QUINCEY'S  '  REVOLT  OF  A  TARTAR  TRIBE.' 

"  I  have  gone  over  the  Introduction  and  notes  with  great  care  and 
with  yet  greater  pleasure.  Dr.  Baldwin  shows  the  greatest  felicity  in 
the  selection  of  matter  and  the  deft  expression  of  salient  points  in 
De  Quincey's  strange  life  and  character." — M.  H.  TURK,  Professor  of 
English,  Hobart  College,  Geneva,  N.  Y. 


"  The  Suggestions  for  Teachers  are  likely  to  be  of  great  value,  not 
•only  because  many  teachers  need  assistance  in  such  work,  but  also 
because  they  must  tend  to  introduce  the  uniformity  of  method  that  is 
hardly  less  valuable  than  the  uniformity  of  the  courses  themselves." 

—  The  Educational  Review,  February,  1896. 


16  LONGMANS'   ENGLISH  CLASSICS 

It  has  been  the  aim  of  the  publishers  to  secure  editors 
of  high  reputation  for  scholarship,  experience,  and  skill, 
and  to  provide  a  series  thoroughly  adapted,  by  uniformity 
of  plan  and  thoroughness  of  execution,  to  present  educa- 
tional needs.  The  chief  distinguishing  features  of  the 
series  are  the  following: 

1.  Each  volume  contains  full  "Suggestions  for  Teach- 
ers and  Students,"  with  bibliographies,  and,  in  many  cases, 
lists  of  topics  recommended  for  further  reading  or  study, 
subjects  for  themes  and  compositions,  specimen  examina- 
tion papers,  etc.     It  is  therefore  hoped  that  the  series  will 
contribute  largely  to  the  working  out  of  sound  methods 
in  teaching  English. 

2.  The  works    prescribed    for   reading  are  treated,   in 
every  case,  as  literature,  not  as  texts  for  narrow  linguistic 
study,  and  edited  with  a  view  to  interesting  the  student  in 
the  book  in  question  both  in  itself  and  as  representative  of 
a  literary  type  or  of  a  period  of  literature,  and  of  leading 
him  on  to  read  other  standard  works  of  the  same  age  or 
kind  understandingly  and  appreciatively. 

3.  These  editions  are  in  every  case  specially  prepared, 
and  they  represent  original  work  of  scholars  and  men  of 
letters  who  are  conversant  with  the  topics  of  which  they 
treat.     Great  care  has  been  taken  to  ensure  accuracy  in 
the  reproduction  of  the  most  authoritative  text  of  each 
author. 

4.  Colleges  and    preparatory   schools  are  both  repre- 
sented in  the  list  of  editors,  and  it  is  intended  that  the 
series   shall  exemplify  the    ripest   methods   of   American 
scholars  for  the  teaching  of  English — the  result  in  some 
cases  of  years  of  actual  experience  in  secondary  school 
work,  and,  in  others,  the  formulation  of  the  experience 
acquired  by  professors  who  observe  carefully  the  needs  of 
students  who  present  themselves  for  admission  to  college. 

5.  The  volumes  are  uniform  in  size  and  style,  are  well 
printed  and  bound,  and  constitute  a  well-edited  set  of 
standard  works,  fit  for  permanent  use  and  possession — a 
nucleus  for  a  library  of  English  literature. 


ENGLISH  HISTORY  FOR  AMERICANS. 

By  THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON,  Author  of  "  Young  Folks'  His. 
tory  of  the  United  States,"  etc.,  and  EDWARD  CHANNING,  Assistant 
Professor  of  History  in  Harvard  University.  With  77  Illustra- 
tions, 6  colored  Maps,  Bibliography,  a  Chronological  Table  of 
Contents,  and  Index.  I2mo.  Pp.  xxxii-334.  Teachers'  price, 

$1.20. 

The  name  "  English  History  for  Americans,"  which  suggests  the  key-note 
of  this  book,  is  based  on  the  simple  fact  that  it  is  not  the  practice  of  American 
readers,  old  or  young,  to  give  to  English  history  more  than  a  limited  portion 
of  their  hours  of  study.  ...  It  seems  clear  that  such  readers  will  use  their 
time  to  the  best  advantage  if  they  devote  it  mainly  to  those  events  in  English 
annals  which  have  had  the  most  direct  influences  on  the  history  and  institutions 
of  their  own  land.  .  .  .  The  authors  of  this  book  have  therefore  boldly 
ventured  to  modify  in  their  narrative  the  accustomed  scale  of  proportion ;  while 
it  has  been  their  wish,  in  the  treatment  of  every  detail,  to  accept  the  best  result 
of  modern  English  investigation,  and  especially  to  avoid  all  unfair  or  one-sided 
judgments.  .  .  .  Extracts  from  Authors  Preface. 

DR.  W.  T.  HARRIS,  U.  S.  COMMISSIONER  OF  EDUCATION. 

"  I  take  great  pleasure  in  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  the  book,  and  believe 
l  to  be  the  best  introduction  to  English  history  hitherto  made  for  the  use  of 
schools.  It  is  just  what  is  needed  in  the  school  and  in  the  family.  It.  is  the 
first  history  of  England  that  I  have  seen  which  gives  proper  attention  to  sociol- 
ogy and  the  evolution  of  political  ideas,  without  neglecting  what  is  picturesque 
and  interesting  to  the  popular  taste.  The  device  of  placing  the  four  historicaf 
maps  at  the  beginning  and  end  deserves  special  mention  for  its  convenience. 
Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on  the  publication  of  so  excellent  a  text-book." 

ENGLISH  HISTORY  IN  SHAKESPEARE'S 
PLAYS. 

By  BEVERLEY  E.  WARNER,  M.A.  With  Bibliography,  Chronological 
Tables,  and  Index.  Crown  8vo,  331  pages-  $1.75. 

This  volume  had  its  origin  in  a  course  of  lectures  on  the  study  of  history 
as  illustrated  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare.  The  lectures  have  been  recast, 
pruned,  and  amplified,  and  much  machinery  has  been  added  in  the  way  of 
tables  of  contents,  bibliography,  chronological  tables,  and  index.  With  such 
helps  it  is  hoped  that  this  book  may  effect  a  working  partnership  between  the 
chronicle  of  the  formal  historian  and  the  epic  of  the  dramatic  poet.  They  are 
addressed  especially  to  those  readers  and  students  of  English  History  who  may 
not  have  discovered  what  an  aid  to  the  understanding  of  certain  important 
phases  of  England's  national  development  lies  in  these  historical  plays,  which 
cover  a  period  of  three  hundred  years — from  King  John  and  Magna  Charta  to 
Henry  VIII.  and  the  Reformation. 

11  This  unique  book  should  be  generally  and  carefully  read.  As  a  commen- 
tary upon  the  history  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  it  is  highly  interesting ;  while  the 
views  of  English  History,  shown  through  the  medium  of  the  great  poet,  are 
admirable.  After  reading  the  work,  one  should  be  a  far  more  appreciative 
student  of  English  History,  and  a  more  interested  reader  of  Shakespeare." 

— Public  Opinion,  New  York. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91  and  93  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York. 


EPOCHS   OF  AMERICAN    HISTORY. 

*#*  The  volumes  of  this  series  already  issued  have  been  adopted  for  use  as  text- 
books in  nearly  all  the  leading  Colleges  and  in  many  Normal  Schools  and  other 
institutions.  A  prospectus,  showing  Contents  and  scope  of  each  volume,  specimen 
pages,  etc. ,  will  be  sent  on  application  to  the  Publishers. 


I.     THE   COLONIES,  1492-1750. 

By  REUBEN  GOLD  THWAITES,  Secretary  of  the  State  Historical  Society 
of  Wisconsin;  Author  of  "  Historic  Waterways,"  etc.  With  four 
colored  Maps.  Pp.  xviii-soi.  Cloth.  $1.25. 


CORNELL  UNIVERSITY. 

"  I  am  pleased,  as  everyone  must  be,  with  the  mechanical  execution  of  the 
book,  with  the  maps,  and  with  the  fresh  and  valuable  'Suggestions'  and  'Refer- 
ences.' .  .  .  The  work  itself  appears  to  me  to  be  quite  remarkable  for  its 
comprehensiveness,  and  it  presents  a  vast  array  of  subjects  in  a  way  that  is  ad' 
mirably  fair,  clear,  and  orderly." — Prof.  MOSES  COIT  TYLER,  Ithaca,  N.  Y. 

WILLIAMS   COLLEGE. 

"It  is  just  the  book  needed  for  college  students,  not  too  brief  to  be  uninter- 
esting, admirable  in  its  plan,  and  well  furnished  with  references  to  accessible 
authorities." — Professor  RICHARD  A.  RICE,  Williamstown,  Mass. 

"All  that  could  be  desired.  This  volume  is  more  like  a  fair  treatment  of  the 
whole  subject  of  the  colonies  than  any  work  of  the  sort  yet  produced." 

—  The  Critic. 

II.    FORMATION   OF  THE   UNION,    1750-1829. 

By  ALBERT  BUSHNELL  HART,  Ph.D.,  Professor  of  History  in 

Harvard  University,  Member  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Society,  Author  of  "  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Federal  Govern- 
ment," "Epoch  Maps,"  etc.  With  five  colored  maps.  Pp.  xx-278. 
Cloth.  $1.25. 

The  second  volume  of  the  EPOCHS  OF  AMERICAN  HISTORY  aims  to  follow 
out  the  principles  laid  down  for  "  THE  COLONIES" — the  study  of  causes 
rather  than  of  events,  the  development  of  the  American  nation  out  of  scattered 
and  inharmonious  colonies.  The  throwing  off  of  English  control,  the  growth 
out  of  narrow  political  conditions,  the  struggle  against  foreign  domination,  and 
the  extension  of  popular  government,  are  all  parts  of  the  uninterrupted  process 
of  the  Formation  of  the  Union. 

LELAND  STANFORD  JR.    UNIVERSITY. 

"The  large  and  sweeping  treatment  of  the  subject,  which  shows  the  true 
relations  of  the  events  preceding  and  following  the  revolution,  to  the  revolution 
itself,  is  a  real  addition  to  the  literature  of  the  subject ;  while  the  bibliography 
prefixed  to  each  chapter  adds  incalculably  to  the  value  of  the  work." 

— MARY  SHELDON  BARNES,  Palo  Alto,  Cal. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91  and  93  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York. 


EPOCHS  OF  AMERICAN   HISTORY. 


III.     DIVISION  AND  RE-UNION,  1829-1889. 

By  WOODROW  WILSON,  Ph.D.,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Jurisprudence  in 
Princeton  College  ;  Author  of  "  Congressional  Government,"  "The 
State — Elements  of  Historical  and  Practical  Politics,"  etc.,  etc. 
With  five  colored  Maps.  346  pages.  Cloth.  $1.25. 

"  We  regret  that  we  have  not  space  for  more  quotations  from  this  uncom- 
monly strong,  impartial,  interesting  book.  Giving  only  enough  facts  to 
elucidate  the  matter  discussed,  it  omits  no  important  questions.  It  furnishes 
the  reader  clear-cut  views  of  the  right  and  the  wrong  of  them  all.  It  gives  ad- 
mirable pen-portraits  of  the  great  personages  of  the  period  with  as  much  free- 
dom from  bias,  and  as  much  pains  to  be  just,  as  if  the  author  were  delineating 
Pericles,  or  Alcibiades,  Sulla,  or  Caesar.  Dr.  Wilson  has  earned  the  gratitude  of 
seekers  after  truth  by  his  masterly  production." — JV.  C.  University  Magazine. 

"  Considered  as  a  general  history  of  the  United  States  from  1829  to  1889, 
his  book  is  marked  by  excellent  sense  of  proportion,  extensive  knowledge,  im- 
partiality of  judgment,  unusual  power  of  summarizing,  and  an  acute  political 
sense.  Few  writers  can  more  vividly  set  forth  the  views  of  parties." 

— Atlantic  Monthly. 

"  Students  of  United  States  history  may  thank  Mr.  Wilson  for  an  extreme- 
ly clear  and  careful  rendering  of  a  period  very  difficult  to  handle  .  .  .  they 
will  find  themselves  materially  aided  in  easy  comprehension  of  the  political 
situation  of  the  country  by  the  excellent  maps.'' — New  York  Times. 

EPOCH  MAPS,  Illustrating  American  History. 

By  A.   B.   HART,   Ph.D.,  Professor  of  History  in  Harvard 

University.      Fourteen  colored   Maps.      Oblong  410,  limp  cloth. 
50  cents  net. 

LIST    OF   MAPS. 


1.  Physical     Features     of     the 

United  States  of  America. 

2.  North  America.      1650. 

3.  English  Colonies.     1700. 

4.  North  America.     1750. 

5.  English  Colonies.    1763-1775. 

6.  The  United  States.     1783. 

7.  Territorial     Growth    of     the 

United  States  of  America. 
1783-1886. 

8.  Status    of     Slavery     in     the 

United  States.     1775-1865. 


9.  The  United  States.  March4, 

1801. 
10.  The  United  States.  March  4, 

1825. 
n.  Territorial  Controversies 

Settled  by  the  United  States. 

1840-1850. 

12.  The  United  States.  March  4, 

1855- 

13.  The  United  States.     July  4, 

1861. 

14.  The  United  States.  March  4, 

1891. 


CORNELL   UNIVERSITY. 

"  They  are  based  on  data  collected  with  learning  and  sound  judgment,  and 
are  more  accurate  than  any  others  that  I  have  seen.  Their  chief  fault  is  that 
there  is  not  enough  of  them." — Professor  M.  COIT  TYLER. 

***  A  prospectus  describing  the  special  features  of  the  Atlas,  with  a  specimen, 
map,  may  be  had  on  application. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91  and  93  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York. 


Longmans,  Green,  Or  Co's  Publications. 

NEW  BOOKS  FOR  TEACHERS. 
Teaching  and  School  Organization. 

A  Manual  of  Practice,  with  Especial  Reference  to  Secondary  Instruc- 
tion.    Edited  by  P.  A.  Barnett.     Crown  8vo.     438  pages.     $2.00. 

The  object  of  this  Manual  is  to  collect  and  co-ordinate  for  the 
use  of  students  and  teachers,  the  experience  of  persons  of  authority 
in  special  branches  of  educational  practice,  and  to  cover  as  nearly 
as  possible  the  whole  field  of  the  work  of  Secondary  Schools  of  both 
higher  and  lower  grades. 

The  subjects  treated  in  the  22  chapters  are  as  follows  :  The 
Criterion  in  Education — Organization  and  Curricula  in  Boys'  Schools 
— Kindergarten — Reading — Drawing  and  Writing — Arithmetic  and 
Mathematics — English  Grammar  and  Composition — English  Litera- 
ture— Modern  History — Ancient  History — Geography — Classics — 
Science — Modern  Languages — Vocal  Music — Discipline — Ineffec- 
tiveness of  Teaching — Specialization — School  Libraries — School  Hy- 
giene— Apparatus  and  Furniture — Organization  and  Curricula  in 
Girls'  Schools. 

A  New  Manual  of  Method. 

By  A.  H.  GARLICK,  B.A.,  Head-master  of  the  Woolwich  P.  T.  Centre. 
Crown  8vo.     398  pages.     $1.20  net.     New  Edition. 
"  It  is  the  best  manual  of  its  scope  and  size  in  English." — Nation,  New 
York. 

"  The  notes  given  on  all  these  topics  are  those  of  a  master,  and  of  a  mas 
ter  from  whom  any  teacher  in  these  grades  of  instruction  might  be  glad  to  re  • 
ceive  suggestions." — The  Independent,  New  York. 

"  It  is  excellent.  No  teacher  can  do  without  it." — Prof.  CARLA  WENCKE- 
BACH,  Wellesley  College,  Wellesley,  Mass. 

Kindergarten  Guide. 

By  Loi's  BATES.     With  numerous  Illustrations,  chiefly  in  half-tone,  and 
1 6  colored  plates.     388  pages.     Crown  8vo.     $1.50  net. 

In  addition  to  a  full  description  of  the  kindergarten  gifts  and  oc- 
cupations, the  book  shows  how  ordinary  subjects  may  be  taught  on 
kindergarten  principles. 

"  A  long  needed  hand-book  for  the  kindergarten  teacher.  .  .  .  The 
whole  course  of  instruction  is  elaborately  explained  with  full  illustrations,  so 
that  the  teacher  possesses,  in  this  i2mo  volume,  a  complete  compendium 
for  her  work." — Churchman,  New  York. 

"Never  before  has  there  been  so  full,  varied,  and  detailed  a  treatment  of 
the  subject  from  the  standpoint  of  teacher,  parent,  and  child.  No  family 
in  which  there  are  little  children  should  be  without  this  sum  of  all  kinder- 
garten virtues." — Journal  of  Education,  Boston,  Mass. 


Longmans,  Green,  Or  Go's  Publications. 

Books  for  Teachers — Continued. 
Games  Without  Music  for  Children. 

By  Lois  BATES,  Author  of  "Kindergarten  Guide,"  etc.  I2mo,  cloth. 
112  pages.  $0.60  net. 

Contents  :  I.  Games  for  the  Schoolroom — II.  Games  for  the  Play- 
ground— III.  Guessing  Rhymes. 

The  object  of  these  games  is  to  introduce  variety  when  it  is  needed 
in  the  ordinary  school  routine,  and  to  form  a  means  of  recreation  to 
the  children  when  unfavorable  weather  makes  the  usual  playtime 
impossible. 

Briefs  for  Debate  on  Current,  Political,  Economic,  and 
Social  Topics. 

Edited  by  W.  DuBois  BROOKINGS,  A.B.,  and  RALPH  CURTIS  RING- 
WALT,  A.B.  With  an  Introduction  on  "The  Art  of  Debate"  by  AL- 
BERT BUSHNELL  HART,  Ph.D.  Crown  8vo.  With  Full  Index.  260 
pages.  $1.25 

In  use  as  a  text-book  in  Harvard  University,  Columbia  University, 
University  of  Pennsylvania,  University  of  Michigan,  and  other  lead- 
ing institutions. 

"  I  cannot  resist  telling  you  that  '  Briefs  for  Debate'  has  proved  itself  to 
be  one  of  the  most  useful  books  in  the  library.  We  use  it  constantly  in  con- 
nection with  the  High  School  work." — C.  K.  BOLTON,  Librarian,  Public 
Library,  Brookline,  Mass. 

The  Will  to  Believe,  and  Other  Essays  in  Popular  Phi- 
losophy. 

By  WILLIAM  JAMES,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Psychology  in  Harvard  Uni- 
versity. Large  crown  8vo.  Pp.  xvii-332.  Cloth,  gilt  top.  $2.00 

Pre-Christian  Education. 

By  S.  S.  LAURIE,  A.M.,  LL.D.,  of  the  University  of  Edinburg.  444 
pages.  $3. 50 

This  book  is  an  attempt  to  survey  the  education  of  ancient  nations 
in  relation  to  those  factors  in  civilization  which  govern  the  thought 
and  life  of  communities — the  political  and  the  ethical.  The  nations 
specially  considered  are  the  Egyptians,  Chinese,  Jews,  Babylonians 
and  Assyrians,  Persians  and  Hindus.  The  education  of  Greece, 
and  Rome  receives  fuller  consideration  than  that  of  other  nations. 

Recently  adopted  as  a  text-book  for  Radcliffe  College,  Columbia 
University,  and  Teachers'  College,  New  York,  and  in  use  in  other 
leading  Institutions. 

Messrs.  Longmans,  Green,   &   Co.  will  be  happy  to   send  their 

Catalogue,   describing  more  than   1,000  text-books  and 

works  of  reference,  to  any  teacher  on  request. 


LONGMANS,   GREEN,   &*  CO.'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

A  STUDENT'S    HISTORY   OF   ENGLAND,  from 
the  Earliest  Times  to  1885. 

By  SAMUEL  RAWSON  GARDINER,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  Fellow  of  All  Souls 
College,  Oxford,  etc.;  Author  of  "The  History  of  England  from  the 
Accession  of  James  I.  to  1642,"  etc.  Illustrated  under  the  superintend- 
ence of  Mr.  W.  H.  ST.  JOHN  HOPE,  Assistant  Secretary  of  the  Society 
of  Antiquaries,  and  with  the  assistance  in  the  choice  of  Portraits  of 
Mr.  GEORGE  SCHARF,  C.B.,  F.S.A.,  who  is  recognized  as  the  highest 
authority  on  the  subject.  In  one  Volume,  with  378  Illustrations  and 
full  Index.  Crown  8vo,  cloth,  plain,  $3.00. 

The  book  is  also  published  in  three  Volumes  (each  -with  Index  and 
Table  of  Contents')  as  follows  : 

VOLUME  I.— B.C.  55-A.D.  1509.     410  pp.     With  173  Illustrations  and  Index. 

Crown  8vo,  $1.30. 
VOLUME  II.— A.D.  1509-1689.  332  pp.  With  96  Illustrations  and  Index. 

Crown  8vo,  $1.20. 
VOLUME  III.— A.D.  1689-1885.  374  pp.  With  109  Illustrations  and  Index. 

Crown  8vo,  $1.20. 

V Gardiner's  "Student's  History  of  England,"  through  Part  IX.  (to 
1789),  is  recommended  by  HAEVAKD  UNIVERSITY  as  indicating  the 
requirements  for  admission  in  this  subject ;  and  the  ENTIfiE  work  is  made 
the  basis  for  English  history  study  in  the  University. 

YALE   UNIVERSITY. 

.  "Gardiner's  'Student's  History  of  England'  seems  to  me   an   admirable 
short  history.1' — Prof.  C.  H.  SMITH,  New  Haven,  Conn. 

TRINITY   COLLEGE,  HARTFORD. 

"It  is,  in  my  opinion,  by  far  the  best  advanced  school  history  of  England 
that  I  have  ever  seen.  It  is  clear,  concise,  and  scientific,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
attractive  and  interesting.  The  illustrations  are  very  good  and  a  valuable 
addition  to  the  book,  as  they  are  not  mere  pretty  pictures,  but  of  real  historical 
and  archaeological  interest."— Prof.  HENRY  FERGUSON. 

"A  unique  feature  consists  of  the  very  numerous  illustrations.  They 
throw  light  on  almost  every  phase  of  English  life  in  all  ages.  .  .  .  Never, 
perhaps,  in  such  a  treatise  has  pictorial  illustration  been  used  with  so  good 
effect.  The  alert  teacher  will  find  here  ample  material  for  useful  lessons  by 
leading  the  pupil  to  draw  the  proper  inferences  and  make  the  proper  interpre- 
tations and  comparisons.  .  .  .  The  style  is  compact,  vigorous,  and  inter- 
esting. There  is  no  lack  of  precision  ;  and,  in  the  selection  of  the  details,  the 
hand  of  the  scholar  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  source  and  with  the  results 
of  recent  criticism  is  plainly  revealed." — The  Nation,  N.  Y. 

".  .  .  It  is  illustrated  by  pictures  of  real  value;  and  when  accompanied 
by  the  companion  '  Atlas  of  English  History'  is  all  that  need  be  desired  for  its 
special  purpose." — The  Churchman,  N.  Y. 

"**-^  prospectus  and  specimen  pages  of  Gardiner's  "  Student"1  s  History 
of  England"  will  be  sent  free  on  application  to  the  publishers. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91  and  93  Fifth  Ave.,  New  York. 


Longmans'  School  Geography 

By  GEORGE  G.  CHISHOLM,  M.A.,  B.Sc.,  author  of  "Handbook  of 
Commercial  Geography,"  "  A  Smaller  Commercial  Geography,"  etc., 
etc.,  and  C.  H.  LEETE,  A.M.,  Ph.D.,  Fellow  of  the  American  Geo- 
graphical Society.  Fourth  edition,  revised.  Large  i2mo,  with  70 
Illustrations.  466  pages.  $1.25 

"  The  closing  paragraph  of  the  prospectus  is  much  closer  to  the  opinion  of 
the  reviewer  than  such  paragraphs  usually  are  :  '  This  text-book  adapts  itself  to 
pupils  of  intelligence,  and  will  be  highly  appreciated  by  all  teachers  imbued 
with  a  spirit  for  teaching  real  geography,  not  attempting  to  supersede  their 
functions  by  dictating  the  length  of  the  daily  tasks  or  the  questions  that  shall  be 
asked,  but  furnishing  a  body  of  material  so  selected,  arranged,  and  presented 
that  its  perusal  is  at  once  pleasurable,  suggestive,  and  of  substantial  value.' 
This  is  perfectly  true.  ...  On  the  whole  the  book  is  remarkably  success- 
ful."— Nation,  New  York. 

"  This  book  is  the  forerunner  of  a  change  which  must  speedily  be  effected 
in  geographical  teaching,  and  is  itself  a  product  of  the  movement  for  reform  in 
England,  which  originated  with  the  Geographical  Society." —  Wisconsin  Journal 
of  Education. 

"  .  .  .  Probably  the  best  book  of  the  kind  ever  published  in  our  lan- 
guage, and  ought  to  help  in  improving  the  instruction  of  our  schools  in  geogra- 
phy. Messrs.  Chisholm  and  Leete's  book  is  valuable  for  its  method,  and  it  is 
this  fact  which  entitles  it  to  the  attention  of  teachers." — Boston  Beacon. 


Longmans'  New  School  Atlas 

Consisting  of  28  quarto  and  10  octavo  Colored  Maps  (and  20  Insets). 

Edited  by  G.  G.  CHISHOLM,  M.A.,  B.Sc.,  and  C.  H.  LEETE,  A.M., 
Ph.D.  Engraved  by  EDWARD  STANFORD.  With  a  very  full  Index 
of  over  100,000  names.  Imp.  8vo.  $i-5o 

"  Much  the  best  Atlas  to  be  had  for  a  dollar  and  a  half  that  has  ever  come 
to  our  notice.  .  .  .  The  maps  are  clear,  the  physical  features  being  re- 
markably well  defined.'1 — Journal  of  Pedagogy. 

"  The  maps  furnish  just  the  facts  needed,  with  no  superfluous  matter.  The 
classification,  arrangement,  and  marginal  index  are  all  features  that  add  to  the 
value  of  the  atlas,  rendering  it  possible  to  make  easy  reference  to  the  several 
maps,  and  thus  aiding  in  the  comparative  study  of  various  countries." — CLARA 
M.  RUSSELL,  State  Normal  College,  Albany,  N.  Y. 

"  A  commendable  piece  of  work.  The  maps  are  not  covered  with  a  mass  of 
detail  or  blackened  with  the  names  of  insignificant  towns.  In  addition  to  the 
usual  geographical  details  there  are  maps  to  illustrate  the  ocean  currents,  mag- 
netic variation,  density  of  population,  and  geological  structure.  No  atlas  of 
equal  practical  value  has  been  issued. " — Prof.  NICHOLAS  MURRAY  BUTLER, 
Educational  Review,  New  York. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  Fifth  Ave.,  New  York 


LONGMANS,   GREEN,  &•   CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS 

STUDIES  IN  AMERICAN  EDUCATION. 

By  ALBERT  BUSHNELL  HART,  Ph.D.     i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 

CONTENTS  :  Has  the  Teacher  a  Profession  ? — Reform  in  the  Grammar 
Schools — University  Participation,  a  Substitute  for  University  Extension — 
How  to  Study  History — How  to  Teach  History  in  Secondary  Schools — The 
Status  of  Athletics  in  American  Colleges — Index. 

"  This  volume  consists  of  six  essays,  each  one  excellent  in  its  way." 

— Public  Opinion,  New  York. 

"  Prof.  Hart  is  a  keen  observer  and  a  profound  thinker  ;  he  knows  what 
American  education  is,  and  he  knows  what  it  ought  to  be  .  .  .  his  whole 
treatment  of  the  subject  is  vigorous  and  original.  .  .  .  He  has  a  most  helpful 
article  on  the  study  of  history,  and  another  equally  significant  on  the  teaching  of 
history  in  the  secondary  schools." — Beacon,  Boston. 

"  The  essays  on  '  How  to  Study  and  Teach  History '  are  admirable.  As 
education  is  a  unit,  the  same  methods  can  be  applied  in  all  grades.  The  relation 
of  college  curriculums  to  secondary  schools  is  the  underlying  subject  of  the  book, 
but  it  is  still  an  open  question  whether  secondary  schools  should  justify  their 
methods  because  they  prepare  for  college,  or  whether  they  should  assume  the 
independent  position,  that  they  furnish  such  knowledge  as  is  most  requisite  for 
boys  and  girls  who  can  study  till  they  are  eighteen,  but  are  not  going  to  college. 
It  is  easily  possible  to  take  this  attitude  and  yet  have  a  preparatory  class  for 
Harvard  in  the  same  high  school." — Literary  World,  Boston. 

"  As  for  the  essays  themselves,  however,  only  words  of  praise  ought  to  be 
spoken.  The  style  is  clear,  concise,  active,  enlivened  by  apt  illustrations ; 
'  breezy '  may  perhaps  be  the  word.  The  thought  is  practical  and  clear-headed, 
as  Professor  Hart  always  is,  and  the  essays  themselves  have  been  '  brought  down 
to  date.'  " — School  Review,  Hamilton,  N.  Y. 

"  This  new  volume  from  the  experience  and  pen  of  Professor  Hart  is  one  of 
practical  interest,  and  a  valuable  addition  to  the  rapidly  increasing  collection  of 
works  on  pedagogy.  .  .  .  While  all  the  chapters  are  interesting,  perhaps  the 
one  most  interesting  to  the  general  reader  is  that  on  '  How  to  Study  History,'  and 
here  Mr.  Hart  shows  his  decided  preferences  for  the  topical  method  of  study. 
This  chapter  should  be  read  by  all  students  of  history  and  especially  by  those 
members  of  private  classes,  of  which  so  many  are  to  be  found  in  our  villages  and 
clubs  all  through  the  country." — Transcript,  Boston. 

"  His  studies  have  a  decidedly  practical  tendency,  and  together  constitute  an 
addition  to  our  steadily  growing  stock  of  good  educational  literature." 

— Dial,  Chicago. 

"  The  author  is  especially  fitted  to  write  a  volume  which  has  the  rare  merit  of 
treating  current  educational  ideas  not  only  from  the  standpoint  of  the  teacher, 
but  also  of  the  pupil,  the  board  of  education  and  the  public  at  large.  The  book 
will  prove  specially  interesting  and  instructive  to  the  general  reader." 

Post  Graduate,  Wooster,  Ohio. 

"Whatever  Dr.  Hart  contributes  to  educational  or  historical  literature  is. 
always  worth  reading,  and  teachers  will  find  these  essays  very  suggestive." 

School  Review,  Monroe,  La. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York,, 


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